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THE CAXTONS 






















































































































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The Caxtons 

A Family Picture 


By 

Lord Lytton 


Illustrated by Chris. Hammond 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 
New York and London 
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TRANSFERRED FROM PUBLIC LIBRARY 


PREFACE 




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JF it be the good fortune of this work to possess any interest 
for the Novel reader, that interest, perhaps, will be but 
little derived from the customary elements of fiction. The 
plot is extremely slight ; the incidents are few, and with the 
exception of those which involve the fate of Vivian, such as 
may be found in the records of ordinary life. 

Regarded as a Novel, this attempt is an experiment some- 
what apart from the previous works of the author ; it is the 
first of his writings in which Humour has been employed less 
for the purpose of satire ttj&irSir illustration of amiable char- 
acters; — it is the fyrst, too,. in which man has been viewed less 
in his active relations with . the world, than in his repose at his 
own hearth: — in a word, the greater part of the canvas has been 
devoted to the completion of a simple Family Picture. And 
thus, in any appeal to the sympathies of the human heart, the 
common household affections occupy the place of those livelier 
or larger passions which usually (and not unjustly) arrogate the 
foreground in Romantic composition. 

In the Hero whose autobiography connects the different 
characters and evejits of the work, it has been the Author’s 
intention to imply the influences of Home upon the conduct 
and career of youth ; and in the ambition which estranges 
Pisistratus for the time from the sedentary occupations in 
which the man of civilised life must usually serve his apprentice- 
ship to Fortune or to Fame, it is not designed to describe the 
fever of Genius conscious of superior powers and aspiring to 
high destinies, but the natural tendencies of a fresh and 
buoyant mind, rather vigorous than contemplative, and in 
which the desire of action is but the symptom of health. 

iii 


iv 


PREFACE 


Pisistratus, in this respect (as he himself feels and implies), 
becomes the specimen or type of a class the numbers of which 
are daily increasing in the inevitable progress of modern civilisa- 
tion. He is one too many in the midst of the crowd : he is 
the representative of the exuberant energies of youth, turning, 
as with the instinct of nature for space and development, from 
the Old World to the New. That which may be called the 
interior meaning of the whole is sought to be completed by the 
inference that, whatever our wanderings, our happiness will 
always be found within a narrow compass, and amidst the 
objects more immediately within our reach ; but that we are 
seldom sensible of this truth (hackneyed though it be in the 
Schools of all Philosophies) till our researches have spread over 
a wider area. To ensure the blessing of repose, we require a 
brisker excitement than a few turns up and down our room. 
Content is like that humour in the crystal, on which Claudian 
has lavished the wonder of a child and the fancies of a Poet — 

“ Vivis gemma tumescit aquis.” 

E. B. L. 


October 1849. 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

By CHRIS. HAMMOND 


“now beat me, do beat me 


Frontispiece 


PAGE 

“egad, sib, you’re right ! ” . . . .42 

“ WHEN SHE WAS WARMING MY BED . . . . .67 

“ MY NAME IS TREVANION ! ” . . . . . . 101 

AT FOUR, FANNY PUTS HER HEAD INTO THE ROOM AND I 

LOSE MINE ......... 135 

IT WAS A MAN’S GLOVE ....... 170 

FANNY HERSELF WAS BENDING OVER ME ! . . .198 

SHE RETIRED INTO A CORNER POUTING, AND SAT DOWN WITH 

GREAT MAJESTY ........ 226 

TOOK REFUGE IN HIS EASY-CHAIR, AND THE CONTEMPLATION 

OF HIS SNUFF-BOX ........ 265 

AND LOOK OVER THE WEEK-BOOKS WITH PRIMMINS . . 296 

“ NO NO ! IT IS FOR YOUR GOOD ” . . . . .311 

I ROSE AND WENT SILENTLY TOWARDS THE WINDOW TO CON- 
CEAL MY FACE ........ 332 

SHE HUNG ON MY SHOULDER AND MURMURED, “ SAVED ! ” . 358 

IT WAS SOME TIME BEFORE WE RECOVERED — BEFORE WE FELT 

THAT WE WERE ALONE ...... . 376 

ROLAND STARTED, AND STRETCHED OUT HIS ARMS VAGUELY 

LIKE A BLIND MAN ...... . 394 

AND HIS FATHER IS RESIGNED ...... 465 

v 





THE CAXTONS 


A FAMILY PICTURE 

PAET I 

CHAPTER I 
O IR — sir, it is a boy ! ” 

^ “ A boy,” said my father, looking up from his book, and 

evidently much puzzled ; “ what is a boy ? ” 

Now my father did not mean by that interrogatory to chal- 
lenge philosophical inquiry, nor to demand of the honest but 
unenlightened woman who had just rushed into his study, a 
solution of that mystery, physiological and psychological, which 
has puzzled so many curious sages, and lies still involved in the 
question, “ What is man ? ” For, as we need not look further 
than Dr. Johnson’s Dictionary to know that a boy is “a male 
child ” — i.e., the male young of man ; so he who would go to 
the depth of things, and know scientifically what is a boy, must 
be able to ascertain “ what is a man.” But, for aught I know, 
my father may have been satisfied with Buffon on that score, 
or he may have sided with Monboddo. He may have agreed 
with Bishop Berkeley — he may have contented himself with 
Professor Combe — he may have regarded the genus spiritually, 
like Zeno, or materially, like Epicurus. Grant that boy is the 
male young of man, and he would have had plenty of definitions 
to choose from. He might have said, “ Man is a stomach — ergo , 
boy a male young stomach. Man is a brain — boy a male young 
brain. Man is a bundle of habits — boy a male young bundle of 
habits. Man is a machine — boy a male young machine. Man 
is a tailless monkey — boy a male young tailless monkey. Man 
is a combination of gases — boy a male young combination of 
gases. Man is an appearance — boy a male young appearance/’ 

A 


2 


THE CAXTONS : 


&c., &c., and et cetera, ad infinitum ! And if none of these 
definitions had entirely satisfied my father, I am perfectly per- 
suaded that he would never have come to Mrs. Primmins for 
a new one. 

But it so happened that my father was at that moment 
engaged in the important consideration whether the Iliad was 
written by one Homer — or was rather a collection of sundry 
ballads, done into Greek by divers hands, and finally selected, 
compiled, and reduced into a whole by a Committee of Taste, 
under that elegant old tyrant Pisistratus ; and the sudden affir- 
mation, “ It is a boy,” did not seem to him pertinent to the 
thread of the discussion. Therefore he asked, “ What is a boy ? ” 
vaguely, and, as it were, taken by surprise. 

“ Lord, sir ! ” said Mrs. Primmins, “ what is a boy ? Why, the 
baby ! ” 

“ The baby ? ” repeated my father, rising. “ What, you don’t 
mean to say that Mrs. Caxton is — eh ?” 

“Yes, I do,” said Mrs. Primmins, dropping a curtsey; “and 
as fine a little rogue as ever I set eyes upon.” 

“ Poor dear woman,” said my father with great compassion. 
“ So soon, too — so rapidly ; ” he resumed in a tone of musing 
surprise. “ Why, it is but the other day we were married ! ” 

“ Bless my heart, sir,” said Mrs. Primmins, much scandalised, 
“it is ten months and more.” 

“ Ten months ! ” said my father with a sigh. “ Ten months ! 
and I have not finished fifty pages of my refutation of Wolfe’s 
monstrous theory ! In ten months a child ! and I’ll be bound 
complete — hands, feet, eyes, ears, and nose ! — and not like this 
poor Infant of Mind (and my father pathetically placed his hand 
on the treatise) of which nothing is formed and shaped — not 
even the first joint of the little finger ! Why, my wife is a 
precious woman ! Well, keep her quiet. Heaven preserve 
her, and send me strength — to support this blessing ! ” 

“ But your honour will look at the baby ? — come, sir ! ” and 
Mrs. Primmins laid hold of my father’s sleeve coaxingly. 

“ Look at it — to be sure,” said my father kindly ; “ look at 
it, certainly ; it is but fair to poor Mrs. Caxton ; after taking 
so much trouble, dear soul ! ” 

Therewith my father, drawing his dressing-robe round him in 
more stately folds, followed Mrs. Primmins upstairs into a room 
very carefully darkened. 

“ How are you, my dear ? ” said my father with compassionate 
tenderness, as he groped his way to the bed. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


3 


A faint voice muttered, “ Better now, and so happy ! ” And, 
at the same moment, Mrs. Prim mins pulled my father away, 
lifted a coverlid from a small cradle, and, holding a candle 
within an inch of an undeveloped nose, cried emphatically, 
“* There — bless it ! ” 

“ Of course, ma’am, I bless it,” said my father rather peevishly. 
“ It is my duty to bless it — Bless it ! And this, then, is the 
way we come into the world ! — red, very red, — blushing for all 
the follies we are destined to commit.” 

My father sat down on the nurse’s chair, the women grouped 
round him. He continued to gaze on the contents of the cradle, 
and at length said musingly, “ And Homer was once like this ! ” 

At this moment — and no wonder, considering the propinquity 
of the candle to his visual organs — Homer’s infant likeness com- 
menced the first untutored melodies of nature. 

“ Homer improved greatly in singing as he grew older,” ob- 
served Mr. Squills, the accoucheur, who was engaged in some 
mysteries in a corner of the room. 

My father stopped his ears. “ Little things can make a great 
noise,” said he philosophically ; “ and the smaller the thing the 
greater noise it can make.” 

So saying, he crept on tiptoe to the bed, and clasping the 
pale hand held out to him, whispered some words that no doubt 
charmed and soothed the ear that heard them, for that pale 
hand was tenderly drawn from his own, and thrown tenderly 
round his neck. The sound of a gentle kiss was heard through 
the stillness. 

“Mr. Caxton, sir,” cried Mr. Squills in rebuke, “you agitate 
my patient — you must retire.” 

My father raised his mild face, looked round apologetically, 
brushed his eyes with the back of his hand, stole to the door, 
and vanished. 

“ I think,” said a kind gossip seated at the other side of my 
mother’s bed, “ I think, my dear, that Mr. Caxton might have 
shown more joy, — more natural feeling, I may say, — at the sight 
of the baby : and such a baby ! But all men are just the same, 
my dear — brutes — all brutes, depend upon it.” 

“ Poor Austin ! ” sighed my mother feebly ; “ how little you 
understand him ! ” 

“ And now I shall clear the room,” said Mr. Squills. “ Go to 
sleep, Mrs. Caxton.” 

“ Mr. Squills,” exclaimed my mother, and the bed-curtains 
trembled, “pray see that Mr. Caxton does not set himself on 


4 


THE CAXTONS : 


fire ; — and., Mr. Squills, tell him not to be vexed and miss me, — 
I shall be down very soon — shan’t I ? ” 

“ If you keep yourself easy, you will, ma’am.” 

“ Pray, say so ; — and Primmins ” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Every one, I fear, is neglecting your master. Be sure, — 
(and my mother’s lips approached close to Mrs. Primmins’ ear,) 
— be sure that you — air his nightcap yourself.” 

“ Tender creatures those women,” soliloquised Mr. Squills, 
as after clearing the room of all present, save Mrs. Primmins and 
the nurse, he took his way towards my father’s study. En- 
countering the footman in the passage, — “John,” said he, “take 
supper into your master’s room, and make us some punch, will 
you — stiffish ? ” 


CHAPTER II 



,. CAXTON, how on earth did you ever come to marry ? ” 


asked Mr. Squills abruptly, with his feet on the hob, while 
stirring up his punch. 

That was a home question which many men might reasonably 
resent ; but my father scarcely knew what resentment was. 

“ Squills,” said he, turning round from his books, and laying 
one finger on the surgeon’s arm confidentially, — “ Squills,” said 
he, “ I myself should be glad to know how I came to be 
married.” 

Mr. Squills was a jovial, good-hearted man — stout, fat, and 
with fine teeth, that made his laugh pleasant to look at as well 
as to hear. Mr. Squills, moreover, was a bit of a philosopher in 
his way ; — studied human nature in curing its diseases ; — and 
was accustomed to say, that Mr. Caxton was a better book in 
himself than all he had in his library. Mr. Squills laughed and 
rubbed his hands. 

My father resumed thoughtfully, and in the tone of one who 
moralises — 

“ There are three great events in life, sir — birth, marriage, 
and death. None know how they are born, few know how they 
die. But I suspect that many can account for the intermediate 
phenomenon — I cannot.” 

“ It was not for money, — it must have been for love,” observed 
Mr. Squills ; “and your young wife is as pretty as she is good.” 

“ Ha ! ” said my father, “ I remember.” 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


5 


“ Do you, sir ! ” exclaimed Squills, highly amused. “ How 
was it ? ” 

My father, as was often the case with him, protracted his reply, 
and then seemed rather to commune with himself than to answer 
Mr. Squills. 

"The kindest, the best of men,” he murmured — “ Abyssus 
Emditionis : and to think that he bestowed on me the only for- 
tune he had to leave, instead of to his own flesh and blood. Jack 
and Kitty. All at least that I could grasp deficiente manu, of his 
Latin, his Greek, his Orientals. What do I not owe to him ?” 

“ To whom ? ” asked Squills. “ Good Lord, what’s the man 
talking about ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” said my father, rousing himself, “ such was Giles 
Tibbets, M.A., Sol Scientiarum, tutor to the humble scholar you 
address, and father to poor Kitty. He left me his Elzevirs ; he 
left me also his orphan daughter.” 

“ Oh ! as a wife ” 

“ No, as a ward. So she came to live in my house. I am sure 
there was no harm in it. But my neighbours said there was, and 
the widow Weltraum told me the girl’s character would suffer. 
What could I do ? — Oh yes, I recollect all now ! I married her, 
that my old friend’s child might have a roof to her head, and 
come to no harm. You see I was forced to do her that injury ; 
for, after all, poor young creature, it was a sad lot for her. A 
dull book-worm like me — cochlece vitam agens, Mr. Squills — leading 
the life of a snail. But my shell was all I could offer to my 
poor friend’s orphan.” 

“ Mr. Caxton, I honour you,” said Squills emphatically, jumping 
up, and spilling half a tumblerful of scalding punch over my 
father’s legs. “ You have a heart, sir ; and I understand why 
your wife loves you. You seem a cold man ; but you have tears 
in your eyes at this moment.” 

“I dare say I have,” said my father, rubbing his shins; “it 
was boiling ! ” 

“And your son will be a comfort to you both,” said Mr. 
Squills, reseating himself, and, in his friendly emotion, wholly 
abstracted from all consciousness of the suffering he had inflicted. 
“ He will be a dove of peace to your ark.” 

“ I don’t doubt it,” said my father ruefully ; “ only those 
doves, when they are small, are a very noisy sort of birds — 
non talium avium cantus somnum reducent. However, it might 
have been worse. Leda had twins.” 

“So had Mrs. Barnabas last week,” rejoined the accoucheur. 


6 


THE CAXTONS : 


“ Who knows what may be in store for you yet ? Here’s a 
health to Master Caxton, and lots of brothers and sisters to 
him.” 

“ Brothers and sisters ! I am sure Mrs. Caxton will never 
think of such a thing, sir,” said my father, almost indignantly. 
“She’s much too good a wife to behave so. Once, in a way, it 
is all very well ; but twice — and as it is, not a paper in its place, 
nor a pen mended the last three days : I, too, who can only write 
‘ cuspide duriuscula ’ — and the baker coming twice to me for his 
bill too ! The Ilithyiae are troublesome deities, Mr. Squills.” 

“ Who are the Ilithyiae ? ” asked the accoucheur. 

“You ought to know,” answered my father, smiling. “The 
female daemons who presided over the Neogilos or New-born. 
They take the name from Juno. See Homer, Book XL By-the- 
bye, will my Neogilos be brought up like Hector or Astyanax — 
videlicet, nourished by its mother or by a nurse ? ” 

“Which do you prefer, Mr. Caxton?” asked Mr, Squills, 
breaking the sugar in his tumbler. “In this I always deem 
it my duty to consult the wishes of the gentleman.” 

“ A nurse by all means, then,” said my father. “ And let her 
carry him upo kolpo, next to her bosom. I know all that has 
been said about mothers nursing their own infants, Mr. Squills ; 
but poor Kitty is so sensitive, that I think a stout healthy peasant 
woman will be the best for the boy’s future nerves, and his 
mother’s nerves, present and future, too. Heigh-ho ! I shall miss 
the dear woman very much ; when will she be up, Mr. Squills ? ” 

“ Oh, in less than a fortnight ! ” 

“And then the Neogilos shall go to school! upo kolpo — the 
nurse with him, and all will be right again,” said my father, with 
a look of sly mysterious humour, which was peculiar to him. 

“ School ! when he’s just born ? ” 

“ Can’t begin too soon,” said my father positively ; “ that’s 
Helvetius’ opinion, and it is mine too ! ” 


CHAPTER III 


fj^HAT I was a very wonderful child I take for granted ; but, 
nevertheless, it was not of my own knowledge that I came 
into possession of the circumstances set down in my former 
chapters. But my father’s conduct on the occasion of my 
birth made a notable impression upon all who witnessed it; 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


7 


and Mr. Squills and Mrs. Primmins have related the facts to 
me sufficiently often to make me as well acquainted with them 
as those worthy witnesses themselves. I fancy I see my father 
before me, in his dark-grey dressing-gown, and with his odd, 
half-sly, half-innocent twitch of the mouth, and peculiar puzzling 
look, from two quiet, abstracted, indolently handsome eyes, at 
the moment he agreed with Helvetius on the. propriety of 
sending me to school as soon as I was born. Nobody knew 
exactly what to make of my father — his wife excepted. The 
people of Abdera sent for Hippocrates to cure the supposed 
insanity of Democritus, “who at that time,” saith Hippocrates 
dryly, “ was seriously engaged in philosophy.” That same people 
of Abdera would certainly have found very alarming symptoms 
of madness in my poor father ; for, like Democritus, “ he 
esteemed as nothing the things, great or small, in which the 
rest of the world were employed.” Accordingly, some set 
him down as a sage, some as a fool. The neighbouring clergy 
respected him as a scholar, “ breathing libraries ” ; the ladies 
despised him as an absent pedant, who had no more gallantry 
than a stock or stone. The poor loved him for his charities, 
but laughed at him as a weak sort of man, easily taken in. Yet 
the squires and farmers found that, in their own matters of 
rural business, he had always a fund of curious information to 
impart ; and whoever, young or old, gentle or simple, learned 
or ignorant, asked his advice, it was given with not more 
humility than wisdom. In the common affairs of life, he seemed 
incapable of acting for himself ; he left all to my mother ; or, 
if taken unawares, was pretty sure to be the dupe. But in 
those very affairs — if another consulted him — his eye brightened, 
his brow cleared, the desire of serving made him a new being : 
cautious, profound, practical. Too lazy or too languid where 
only his own interests were at stake — touch his benevolence, 
and all the wheels of the clockwork felt the impetus of the 
master-spring. No wonder that, to others, the nut of such a 
character was hard to crack ! But, in the eyes of my poor 
mother, Augustine (familiarly Austin) Caxton was the best 
and the greatest of human beings ; and she ought to have 
known him well, for she studied him with her whole heart, 
knew every trick of his face, and, nine times out of ten, divined 
what he was going to say before he opened his lips. Yet 
certainly there were deeps in his nature which the plummet 
of her tender woman’s wit had never sounded ; and, certainly 
it sometimes happened that, even in his most domestic collo- 


8 


THE CAXTONS : 


quialisms, my mother was in doubt whether he was the simple 
straightforward person he was mostly taken for. There was, 
indeed, a kind of suppressed, subtle irony about him, too 
unsubstantial to be popularly called humour, but dimly im- 
plying some sort of jest, which he kept all to himself; 
and this was only noticeable when he said something that 
sounded very grave, or appeared to the grave very silly and 
irrational. 

That I did not go to school — at least to what Mr. Squills 
understood by the word school — quite so soon as intended, 1 
need scarcely observe. In fact, my mother managed so well — 
my nursery, by means of double doors, was so placed out of 
hearing — that my father, for the most part, was privileged, if 
he pleased, to forget my existence. He was once vaguely re- 
called to it on the occasion of my christening. Now, my father 
was a shy man, and he particularly hated all ceremonies and 
public spectacles. He became uneasily aware that a great 
ceremony, in which he might be called upon to play a promi- 
nent part, was at hand. Abstracted as he was, and conveniently 
deaf at times, he had heard such significant whispers about 
"taking advantage of the bishop’s being in the neighbourhood,” 
and " twelve new jelly-glasses being absolutely wanted,” as to 
assure him that some deadly festivity was in the wind. And 
when the question of godmother and godfather was fairly put 
to him, coupled with the remark that this was a fine opportunity 
to return the civilities of the neighbourhood, he felt that a 
strong effort at escape was the only thing left. Accordingly, 
having, seemingly without listening, heard the day fixed, and 
seen, as they thought, without observing, the chintz chairs in 
the best drawing-room uncovered (my dear mother was the 
tidiest woman in the world), my father suddenly discovered 
that there was to be a great book-sale, twenty miles off, which 
would last four days, and attend it he must. My mother 
sighed ; but she never contradicted my father, even when he 
was wrong, as he certainly was in this case. She only dropped 
a timid intimation that she feared " it would look odd, and the 
world might misconstrue my father’s absence — had not she 
better put off the christening ? ” 

"My dear,” answered my father, "it will be my duty, by-and- 
bv, to christen the boy — a duty not done in a day. At present, 
I have no doubt that the bishop will do very well without me. 
Let the day stand, or, if you put it off, upon my word and 
honour I believe that the wicked auctioneer will put off the 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


9 

book-sale also. Of one thing I am quite sure, that the sale and 
the christening will take place at the same time.” 

There was no getting over this ; but I am certain my dear 
mother had much less heart than before in uncovering the 
chintz chairs in the best drawing-room. Five years later this 
would not have happened. My mother would have kissed my 
father, and said “Stay,” and he would have stayed. But she 
was then very young and timid ; and he, wild man, not of the 
woods, but the cloisters, not yet civilised into the tractabilities 
of home. In short, the post-chaise was ordered and the carpet- 
bag packed. 

“ My love,” said my mother, the night before this Hegira, 
looking up from her work — “my love, there is one thing you 
have quite forgot to settle — I beg pardon for disturbing you, but 
it is important ! — baby’s name ; shan’t we call him Augustine ? ” 

“Augustine,” said my father dreamily; “why, that name’s 
mine.” 

“ And you would like your boy’s to be the same ? ” 

“ No,” said my father, rousing himself. “ Nobody would 
know which was which. I should catch myself learning the 
Latin accidence or playing at marbles. I should never know 
my own identity, and Mrs. Primmins would be giving me pap.” 

My mother smiled ; and putting her hand, which was a very 
pretty one, on my father’s shoulder, and looking at him tenderly, 
she said, “ There’s no fear of mistaking you for any other, even 
your son, dearest. Still, if you prefer another name, what shall 
it be ? ” 

“ Samuel,” said my father. “Dr. Parr’s name is Samuel.” 

“ La, my love ! Samuel is the ugliest name ” 

My father did not hear the exclamation, he was again deep in 
his books ; presently he started up — “ Barnes says Homer is 
Solomon. Read Omeros backwards, in the Hebrew manner ” 

“Yes, my love,” interrupted my mother. “But baby’s Chris- 
tian name ? ” 

“ Omeros — Soremo — Solemo — Solomo ! ” 

“ Solomo ! shocking ! ” said my mother. 

“Shocking, indeed,” echoed my father: “an outrage to common 
sense.” Then, after glancing again over his books, he broke out 
musingly — “ But, after all, it is nonsense to suppose that Homer 
was not settled till his time.” 

“ Whose ? ” asked my mother mechanically. 

My father lifted up his finger. 

My mother continued, after a short pause, “ Arthur is a pretty 


10 


THE CAXTONS : 


name. Then there’s William — Henry — Charles — Robert. What 
shall it be, love ? ” 

“ Pisistratus ! ” said my father (who had hung fire till then), 
in a tone of contempt — " Pisistratus, indeed ! ” 

“ Pisistratus ! a very fine name,” said my mother joyfully — 
“ Pisistratus Caxton. Thank you, my love : Pisistratus it shall be.” 

“ Do you contradict me ? Do you side with Wolfe and Heyne, 
and that pragmatical fellow, Vico ? Do you mean to say that 
the Rhapsodists ” 

“ No, indeed,” interrupted my mother. “ My dear, you 
frighten me.” 

My father sighed and threw himself back in his chair. My 
mother took courage and resumed. 

“ Pisistratus is a long name too ! Still, one could call him 
Sisty.” 

"Sisty, Viator,” muttered my father ; "that’s trite ! ” 

" No, Sisty by itself — short. Thank you, my dear.” 

Four days afterwards, on his return from the book-sale, to my 
father’s inexpressible bewilderment, he was informed that " Pisis- 
tratus was growing the very image of him.” 

When at length the good man was made thoroughly aware of 
the fact, that his son and heir boasted a name so memorable in 
history as that borne by the enslaver of Athens, and the disputed 
arranger of Homer — and it was asserted to be a name that he 
himself had suggested — he was as angry as so mild a man 
could be. " But it is infamous ! ” he exclaimed. " Pisistratus 
christened ! Pisistratus ! who lived six hundred years before 
Christ was born. Good Heavens, madam ! you have made me 
the father of an Anachronism.” 

My mother burst into tears. But the evil was irremediable. An 
anachronism I was, and an anachronism I must continue to the 
end of the chapter. 


CHAPTER IV 

("AF course, sir, you will begin soon to educate your son your- 
^ self?” said Mr. Squills. 

"Of course, sir,” said my father, "you have read Martinus 
Scriblerus ? ” 

" I don’t understand you, Mr. Caxton.” 

" Then you have not read Martinus Scriblerus, Mr. Squills ! ” 
u Consider that I have read it, and what then ? ” 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


11 


“Why then. Squills,” said my father familiarly, “you would 
know, that though a scholar is often a fool, he is never a fool so 
supreme, so superlative, as when he is defacing the first unsullied 
page of the human history, by entering into it the commonplaces 
of his own pedantry. A scholar, sir — at least one like me — is of 
all persons the most unfit to teach young children. A mother, 
sir — a simple, natural, loving mother — is the infant’s true guide 
to knowledge.” 

“Egad, Mr. Caxton, in spite of Helvetius, whom you quoted 
the night the boy was born — egad, I believe you are right.” 

“ I am sure of it,” said my father ; “ at least as sure as a poor 
mortal can be of anything. I agree with Helvetius, the child 
should be educated from its birth ; but how ? — there is the rub : 
send him to school forthwith ! Certainly, he is at school already 
with the two great teachers, Nature and Love. Observe, that 
childhood and genius have the same master-organ in common — 
inquisitiveness. Let childhood have its way, and as it began 
where genius begins, it may find what genius finds. A certain 
Greek writer tells us of some man, who, in order to save his 
bees a troublesome flight to Hymettus, cut their wings, and 
placed before them the finest flowers he could select. The 
poor bees made no honey. Now, sir, if I were to teach my 
boy, I should be cutting his wings, and giving him the flowers 
he should find himself. Let us leave Nature alone for the 
present, and Nature’s loving proxy, the watchful mother.” 

Therewith my father pointed to his heir sprawling on the grass, 
and plucking daisies on the lawn ; while the young mother’s 
voice rose merrily, laughing at the child’s glee. 

“ I shall make but a poor bill out of your nursery, I see,” said 
Mr. Squills. 

Agreeably to these doctrines, strange in so learned a father, I 
thrived and flourished, and learned to spell, and make pot-hooks, 
under the joint care of my mother and Dame Primmins. This 
last was one of an old race fast dying away — the race of old 
faithful servants — the race of old tale-telling nurses. She had 
reared my mother before me ; but her affection put out new 
flowers for the new generation. She was a Devonshire woman 
— and Devonshire women, especially those who have passed 
their youth near the sea-coast, are generally superstitious. She 
had a wonderful budget of fables. Before I was six years old, 
I was erudite in that primitive literature, in which the legends 
of all nations are traced to a common fountain — Puss in Boots, 
Tom Thumb, Fortunio, Fortunatus, Jack the Giant Killer, — tales 


12 


THE CAXTONS : 


like proverbs, equally familiar, under different versions, to the 
infant worshippers of Budh and the hardier children of Thor. 
I may say, without vanity, that in an examination in those vener- 
able classics, I could have taken honours ! 

My dear mother had some little misgivings as to the solid 
benefit to be derived from such fantastic erudition, and timidly 
consulted my father thereon. 

“ My love,” answered my father, in that tone of voice which 
always puzzled even my mother, to be sure whether he was in 
jest or earnest — “in all these fables, certain philosophers could 
easily discover symbolic significations of the highest morality. 
I have myself written a treatise to prove that Puss in Boots is an 
allegory upon the progress of the human understanding, having 
its origin in the mystical schools of the Egyptian priests, and 
evidently an illustration of the worship rendered at Thebes and 
Memphis to those feline quadrupeds, of which they make both 
religious symbols and elaborate mummies.” 

“ My dear Austin,” said my mother, opening her blue eyes, 
“you don’t think that Sisty would discover all those fine things 
in Puss in Boots ! ” 

“ My dear Kitty,” answered my father, “ you don’t think, 
when you were good enough to take up with me, that you 
found in me all the fine things I have learned from books. You 
knew me only as a harmless creature, who was happy enough to 
please your fancy. By-and-by you discovered that I was no 
worse for all the quartos that have transmigrated into ideas 
within me — ideas that are mysteries even to myself. If Sisty, 
as you call the child (plague on that unlucky anachronism ! 
which you do well to abbreviate into a dissyllable), — if Sisty 
can’t discover all the wisdom of Egypt in Puss in Boots , what 
then ? Puss in Boots is harmless, and it pleases his fancy. All 
that wakes curiosity is wisdom, if innocent — all that pleases the 
fancy now, turns hereafter to love or to knowledge. And so, 
my dear, go back to the nursery.” 

But I should wrong thee, oh best of fathers ! if I suffered the 
reader to suppose, that because thou didst seem so indifferent 
to my birth, and so careless as to my early teaching, therefore 
thou wert, at heart, indifferent to thy troublesome Neogilos. 
As I grew older, 1 became more sensibly aware that a father’s 
eye was upon me. I distinctly remember one incident, that 
seems to me, in looking back, a crisis in my infant life, as 
the first tangible link between my own heart and that calm 
great soul. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


13 


My father was seated on the lawn before the house, his straw 
hat over his eyes (it was summer), and his book on his lap. 
Suddenly a beautiful delf blue-and-white flower-pot, which had 
been set on the window-sill of an upper storey, fell to the 
ground with a crash, and the fragments spluttered up round my 
father’s legs. Sublime in his studies as Archimedes in the siege, 
he continued to read ; Impavidum ferient ruince ! 

“ Dear, dear ! ” cried my mother, who was at work in the 
porch, “my poor flower-pot that I prized so much ! Who could 
have done this ? Primmins, Primmins ! ” 

Mrs. Primmins popped her head out of the fatal window, 
nodded to the summons, and came down in a trice, pale and 
breathless. 

“ Oh,” said my mother mournfully, “ I would rather have lost 
all the plants in the greenhouse in the great blight last May, — 
I would rather the best tea-set were broken ! The poor 
geranium I reared myself, and the dear, dear flower-pot which 
Mr. Caxton bought for me my last birthday ! That naughty 
child must have done this ! ” 

Mrs. Primmins was dreadfully afraid of my father — why, I 
know not, except that very talkative social persons are usually 
afraid of very silent shy ones. She cast a hasty glance at her 
master, who was beginning to evince signs of attention, and 
cried promptly, “ No, ma’am, it was not the dear boy, bless his 
flesh, it was I ! ” 

“You? how could you be so careless? and you knew how I 
prized them both. O Primmins ! ” 

Primmins began to sob. 

“ Don’t tell fibs, nursey,” said a small shrill voice ; and Master 
Sisty (coming out of the house as bold as brass) continued 
rapidly — “ Don’t scold Primmins, mamma ; it was I who pushed 
out the flower-pot.” 

“ Hush ! ” said nurse, more frightened than ever, and looking 
aghast towards my father, who had very deliberately taken off 
his hat, and was regarding the scene with serious eyes wide 
awake. 

“ Hush ! And if he did break it, ma’am, it was quite an 
accident ; he was standing so, and he never meant it. Did you, 
Master Sisty ? Speak ! (this in a whisper) or Pa will be so 
angry.” 

“ Well,” said my mother, “ I suppose it was an accident ; take 
care in future, my child. You are sorry, I see, to have grieved 
me. There’s a kiss ; don’t fret.” 


14 


THE CAXTONS: 


" No, mamma, you must not kiss me ; I don’t deserve it. I 
pushed out the flower-pot on purpose.” 

" Ha ! and why ? ” said my father, walking up. 

Mrs. Primmins trembled like a leaf. 

" For fun!” said I, hanging my head — "just to see how 
you’d look, papa; and that’s the truth of it. Now beat me, 
do beat me ! ” 

My father threw his book fifty yards off, stooped down, and 
caught me to his breast. "Boy,” he said, "you have done 
wrong : you shall repair it by remembering all your life that your 
father blessed God for giving him a son who spoke truth in spite 
of fear ! O Mrs. Primmins, the next fable of this kind you try to 
teach him, and we part for ever ! ” 

From that time I first date the hour when I felt that I loved my 
father, and knew that he loved me ; and from that time, too, he 
began to converse with me. He would no longer, if he met me 
in the garden, pass by with a smile and nod ; he would stop, put 
his book in his pocket, and though his talk was often above my 
comprehension, still somehow I felt happier and better, and less 
of an infant, when I thought over it, and tried to puzzle out the 
meaning ; for he had a way of suggesting, not teaching — putting 
things into my head, and then leaving them to work out their own 
problems. I remember a special instance with respect to that 
same flower-pot and geranium. Mr. Squills, who was a bachelor, 
and well-to-do in the world, often made me little presents. Not 
long after the event I have narrated, he gave me one far exceeding 
in value those usually bestowed on children, — it was a beautiful 
large domino-box in cut ivory, painted and gilt. This domino-box 
was my delight. I was never weary of playing at dominoes with 
Mrs. Primmins, and I slept with the box under my pillow. 

" Ah ! ” said my father one day, when he found me ranging 
the ivory parallelograms in the parlour, " ah ! you like that better 
than all your playthings, eh ? ” 

" Oh yes, papa.” 

"You would be very sorry if your mamma were to throw that 
box out of the window, and break it for fun.” I looked beseech- 
ingly at my father, and made no answer. 

" But perhaps you would be very glad,” he resumed, " if sud- 
denly one of those good fairies you read of could change the 
domino-box into a beautiful geranium in a beautiful blue-and- 
white flower-pot, and you could have the pleasure of putting it 
on your mamma’s window-sill.” 

" Indeed I would ! ” said I, half-crying, 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


15 


“ My dear boy, I believe you ; but good wishes don’t mend 
bad actions — good actions mend bad actions.” 

So saying, he shut the door and went out. I cannot tell you 
how puzzled I was to make out what my father meant by his 
aphorism. But I know that I played at dominoes no more that 
day. The next morning my father found me seated by myself 
under a tree in the garden ; he paused and looked at me with 
his grave bright eyes very steadily. 

“ My boy/’ said he, " I am going to walk to (a town about 

two miles off), will you come ? and, by-the-bye, fetch your 
domino-box : I should like to show it to a person there.” I ran 
in for the box, and, not a little proud of walking with my father 
upon the high-road, we set out. 

“ Papa,” said I by the way, " there are no fairies now.” 

" What then, my child ? ” 

"Why — how then can my domino-box be changed into a 
geranium and a blue-and- white flower-pot ? ” 

a My dear,” said my father, leaning his hand on my shoulder, 
" everybody who is in earnest to be good, carries two fairies 
about with him — one here,” and he touched my heart ; " and 
one here,” and he touched my forehead. 

" I don’t understand, papa.” 

" I can wait till you do, Pisistratus ! What a name ! ” 

My father stopped at a nursery gardener’s, and, after looking 
over the flowers, paused before a large double geranium. " Ah, 
this is finer than that which your mamma was so fond of. What 
is the cost, sir ? ” 

"Only 7s. 6d.,” said the gardener. 

My father buttoned up his pocket. " I can’t afford it to-day,” 
said he gently, and we walked out. 

On entering the town, we stopped again at a china-warehouse. 

" Have you a flower-pot like that I bought some months ago ? 
Ah, here is one, marked 3s. 6d. Yes, that is the price. Well, 
when your mamma’s birthday comes again, we must buy her 
another. That is some months to wait. And we can wait, 
Master Sisty. For truth, that blooms all the year round, is 
better than a poor geranium ; and a word that is never broken 
is better than a piece of delf.” 

My head, which had drooped before, rose again ; but the rush 
of joy at my heart almost stifled me. 

" I have called to pay your little bill,” said my father, enter- 
ing the shop of one of those fancy stationers, common in country 
towns, and who sell all kinds of pretty toys and nick-nacks. 


16 


THE CAXTONS : 


" And by the way/’ he added, as the smiling shopman looked 
over his books for the entry, "I think my little boy here can show 
you a much handsomer specimen of French workmanship than 
that work-box which you enticed Mrs. Caxton into raffling for, 
last winter. Show your domino-box, my dear.” 

I produced my treasure, and the shopman was liberal in his 
commendations. " It is always well, my boy, to know what a 
thing is worth, in case one wishes to part with it. If my young 
gentleman gets tired of his plaything, what will you give him 
for it ? ” 

" Why, sir,” said the shopman, " I fear we could not afford 
to give more than eighteen shillings for it, unless the young 
gentleman took some of these pretty things in exchange ! ” 

"Eighteen shillings!” said my father; "you would give that 
sum. Well, my boy, whenever you do grow tired of your box, 
you have my leave to sell it.” 

My father paid his bill and went out. I lingered behind a 
few moments, and joined him at the end of the street. 

" Papa, papa ! ” I cried, clapping my hands, " we can buy the 
geranium — we can buy the flower-pot.” And I pulled a handful 
of silver from my pockets. 

" Did I not say right ? ” said my father, passing his hand- 
kerchief over his eyes — "You have found the two fairies ! ” 

Oh ! how proud, how overjoyed I was, when, after placing 
vase and flower on the window-sill, I plucked my mother by the 
gown, and made her follow me to the spot. 

" It is his doing and his money ! ” said my father ; " good 
actions have mended the bad.” 

"What ! ” cried my mother, when she had learned all ; "and 
your poor domino-box that you were so fond of! We will go 
back to-morrow, and buy it back, if it costs us double.” 

" Shall we buy it back, Pisistratus ? ” asked my father. 

" Oh no — no — no ! It would spoil all,” I cried, burying my 
face on my father’s breast. 

" My wife,” said my father solemnly, " this is my first lesson 
to our child — the sanctity and the happiness of self-sacrifice — 
undo not what it should teach to his dying day.” 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


17 


CHAPTER V 

V\7"HEN I was between my seventh and my eighth year, a 
change came over me, which may perhaps be familiar to 
the notice of those parents who boast the anxious blessing of an 
only child. The ordinary vivacity of childhood forsook me; I be- 
came quiet, sedate, and thoughtful. The absence of playfellows 
of my own age, the companionship of mature minds, alternated 
only by complete solitude, gave something precocious, whether to 
my imagination or my reason. The wild fables muttered to me 
by the old nurse in the summer twilight, or over the winters 
hearth — the effort made by my struggling intellect to compre- 
hend the grave, sweet wisdom of my father’s suggested lessons — 
tended to feed a passion for reverie, in which all my faculties 
strained and struggled, as in the dreams that come when sleep 
is nearest waking. I had learned to read with ease, and to write 
with some fluency, and I already began to imitate, to reproduce. 
Strange tales, akin to those I had gleaned from fairy-land — 
rude songs, modelled from such verse-books as fell into my 
hands, began to mar the contents of marble-covered pages, 
designed for the less ambitious purposes of round text and 
multiplication. My mind was yet more disturbed by the in- 
tensity of my home affections. My love for both my parents 
had in it something morbid and painful. I often wept to think 
how little I could do for those I loved so well. My fondest 
fancies built up imaginary difficulties for them, which my arm 
was to smooth. These feelings, thus cherished, made my nerves 
over-susceptible and acute. Nature began to affect me power- 
fully ; and from that affection rose a restless curiosity to analyse 
the charms that so mysteriously moved me to joy or awe, to smiles 
or tears. I got my father to explain to me the elements of 
astronomy; I extracted from Squills, who was an ardent botanist, 
some of the mysteries in the life of flowers. But music became 
my darling passion. My mother (though the daughter of a 
great scholar — a scholar at whose name my father raised his hat 
if it happened to be on his head) possessed, I must own it 
fairly, less book-learning than many an humble tradesman’s 
daughter can boast in this more enlightened generation ; but 
she had some natural gifts which had ripened, Heaven knows 
how ! into womanly accomplishments. She drew with some 
elegance, and painted flowers to exquisite perfection. She 


18 


THE CAXTONS: 


played on more than one instrument with more than boarding- 
school skill ; and though she sang in no language but her own, 
few could hear her sweet voice without being deeply touched. 
Her music, her songs, had a wondrous effect on me. Thus, 
altogether, a kind of dreamy yet delightful melancholy seized 
upon my whole being ; and this was the more remarkable, be- 
cause contrary to my early temperament, which was bold, active, 
and hilarious. The change in my character began to act upon my 
form. From a robust and vigorous infant, I grew into a pale and 
slender boy. I began to ail and mope. Mr. Squills was called in. 

“ Tonics!” said Mr. Squills; “and don’t let him sit over his 
book. Send him out in the air — make him play. Come here, 
my boy — these organs are growing too large ; ” and Mr. Squills, 
who was a phrenologist, placed his hand on my forehead. 
“ Gad, sir, here’s an ideality for you ; and, bless my soul, what 
a constructiveness ! ” 

My father pushed aside his papers, and walked to and fro the 
room with his hands behind him ; but he did not say a word till 
Mr. Squills was gone. 

“ My dear,” then said he to my mother, on whose breast I 
was leaning my aching ideality — “ my dear, Pisistratus must go 
to school in good earnest.” 

“ Bless me, Austin ! — at his age ? ” 

“ He is nearly eight years old.” 

“ But he is so forward.” 

“ It is for that reason he must go to sehool.” 

“ I don’t quite understand you, my love. I know he is getting 
past me ; but you who are so clever ” 

My father took my mother’s hand — “We can teach him 
nothing now, Kitty. We send him to school to be taught ” 

“ By some schoolmaster who knows much less than you do ” 

“ By little schoolboys, who will make him a boy again,” said 
my father, almost sadly. “ My dear, you remember that, when 
our Kentish gardener planted those filbert trees, and when they 
were in their third year, and you began to calculate on what 
they would bring in, you went out one morning, and found he 
had cut them down to the ground. You were vexed, and asked 
why. What did the gardener say ? f To prevent their bearing 
too soon.’ There is no want of fruitfulness here — put back the 
hour of produce, that the plant may last.’’ 

“ Let me go to school,” said I, lifting my languid head, and 
smiling on my father. I understood him at once, and it was as 
if the voice of my life itself answered him. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


19 


CHAPTER VI 

A YEAR after the resolution thus come to, I was at home for 
the holidays. 

“ I hope,” said my mother, “that they are doing Sisty justice. 
I do think he is not nearly so quick a child as he was before he 
went to school. I wish you would examine him, Austin.” 

“I have examined him, my dear. It is just as I expected ; 
and I am quite satisfied.” 

“ What ! you really think he has come on ? ” said my mother 
joyfully. 

“ He does not care a button for botany now,” said Mr. Squills. 

“And he used to be so fond of music, dear boy!” observed 
my mother, with a sigh. “ Good gracious, what noise is that ? ” 

“ Your son’s pop-gun against the window,” said my father. 
“ It is lucky it is only the window ; it would have made a less 
deafening noise, though, if it had been Mr. Squill’s head, as it 
was yesterday morning.” 

“ The left ear,” observed Squills ; “ and a very sharp blow it 
was, too. Yet you are satisfied, Mr. Caxton ? ” 

“ Yes ; I think the boy is now as great a blockhead as most 
boys of his age are,” observed my father with great complacency. 

“ Dear me, Austin — a great blockhead ? ” 

“ What else did he go to school for ? ” asked my father. And 
observing a certain dismay in the face of his female audience, 
and a certain surprise in that of his male, he rose and stood on 
the hearth, with one hand in his waistcoat, as was his wont when 
about to philosophise in more detail than was usual to him. 

“Mr. Squills,” said he, “you have had great experience in 
families.” 

“ As good a practice as any in the county,” said Mr. Squills 
proudly ; “ more than I can manage. I shall advertise for a 
partner.” 

“ And,” resumed my father, “ you must have observed almost 
invariably that, in every family, there is what father, mother, 
uncle, and aunt pronounce to be one wonderful child.” 

“ One at least,” said Mr. Squills, smiling. 

“It is easy,” continued my father, “to say this is parental 
partiality, — but it is not so. Examine that child as a stranger, 
and it will startle yourself. You stand amazed at its eager 
curiosity — its quick comprehension — its ready wit — its delicate 


20 


THE CAXTONS : 


perception. Often, too, you will find some faculty strikingly 
developed ; the child will have a turn for mechanics, perhaps, 
and make you a model of a steam-boat — or it will have an ear 
tuned to verse, and will write you a poem like that it has got 
by heart from f The Speaker * — or it will take to botany (like 
Pisistratus), with the old maid its aunt — or it will play a march 
on its sister’s pianoforte. In short, even you. Squills, will declare 
that it is really a wonderful child.” 

“ Upon my word,” said Mr. Squills thoughtfully, “there’s a 
great deal of truth in what you say. Little Tom Dobbs is a 
wonderful child — so is Frank Stepington — and as for Johnny 
Styles, I must bring him here for you to hear him prattle on 
Natural History, and see how well he handles his pretty little 
microscope.” 

“ Heaven forbid ! ” said my father. “ And now let me pro- 
ceed. These thaumata , or wonders, last till when, Mr. Squills ? 
— last till the boy goes to school, and then, somehow or other, 
the thaumata vanish into thin air, like ghosts at the cockcrow. 
A year after the prodigy has been at the academy, father and 
mother, uncle and aunt, plague you no more with his doings and 
sayings ; the extraordinary infant has become a very ordinary 
little boy. Is it not so, Mr. Squills ?” 

“ Indeed you are right, sir. How did you come to be so ob- 
servant ? you never seem to ” 

“ Hush ! ” interrupted my father ; and then, looking fondly at 
my mother’s anxious face, he said soothingly , — “ Be comforted : 
this is wisely ordained — and it is for the best.” 

“ It must be the fault of the school,” said my mother, shaking 
her head. 

“ It is the necessity of the school, and its virtue, my Kate. 
Let any one of these wonderful children — wonderful as you 
thought Sisty himself — stay at home, and you will see its head 
grow bigger and bigger, and its body thinner and thinner — eh, 
Mr. Squills ? — till the mind take all nourishment from the frame, 
and the frame, in turn, stint or make sickly the mind. You see 
that noble oak from the window. If the Chinese had brought 
it up, it would have been a tree in miniature at five years old, 
and at a hundred, you would have set it in a flower-pot on your 
table, no bigger than it was at five — a curiosity for its maturity 
at one age — a show for its diminutiveness at the other. No ! 
the ordeal for talent is school; restore the stunted mannikin to 
the growing child, and then let the child, if it can, healthily, 
hardily, naturally, work its slow way up into greatness. If 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


21 


greatness be denied it, it will at least be a man, and that is 
better than to be a little Johnny Styles all its life — an oak in a 
pill-box.” 

At that moment I rushed into the room, glowing and panting 
health on my cheek — vigour in my limbs — all childhood at my 
heart. “ Oh, mamma, 1 have got up the kite — so high ! come 
and see. Do come, papa.” 

“ Certainly,” said my father ; “ only don’t cry so loud — kites 
make no noise in rising ; yet, you see how they soar above the 
world. Come, Kate. Where is my hat? Ah — thank you, my 
boy.” 

“ Kitty,” said my father, looking at the kite, which, attached 
by its string to the peg I had stuck into the ground, rested calm 
in the sky, “ never fear but what our kite shall fly as high ; only, 
the human soul has stronger instincts to mount upward than a 
few sheets of paper on a framework of lath. But observe, that 
to prevent its being lost in the freedom of space, we must attach 
it lightly to earth ; and observe again, my dear, that the higher 
it soars, the more string we must give it.” 


PART II 


CHAPTER I 

TATHEN I had reached the age of twelve, I had got to the 
* * head of the preparatory school to which I had been sent. 
And having thus exhausted all the oxygen of learning in that 
little receiver, my parents looked out for a wider range for my 
inspirations. During the last two years in which I had been at 
school, my love for study had returned ; but it was a vigorous, 
wakeful, undreamy love, stimulated by competition, and animated 
by the practical desire to excel. 

My father no longer sought to curb my intellectual aspirings. 
He had too great a reverence for scholarship not to wish me to 
become a scholar if possible ; though he more than once said to 
me somewhat sadly, " Master books, but do not let them master 
you. Read to live, not live to read. One slave of the lamp is 
enough for a household ; my servitude must not be a hereditary 
bondage.” 

My father looked round for a suitable academy ; and the fame 
of Dr. Herman’s “ Philhellenic Institute ” came to his ears. 

Now, this Dr, Herman was the son of a German music-master, 
who had settled in England. He had completed his own educa- 
tion at the University of Bonn ; but finding learning too common 
a drug in that market to bring the high price at which he valued 
his own, and having some theories as to political freedom which 
attached him to England, he resolved upon setting up a school, 
which he designed as an "Era in the History of the Human 
Mind.” Dr. Herman was one of the earliest of those new- 
fashioned authorities in education, who have, more lately, spread 
pretty numerously amongst us, and would have given, perhaps, 
a dangerous shake to the foundations of our great classical 
seminaries, if those last had not very wisely, though very 
cautiously, borrowed some of the more sensible principles which 
lay mixed and adulterated amongst the crotchets and chimeras 
of their innovating rivals and assailants. 

22 


A FAMILY PICTURE 




23 

Dr. Herman had written a great many learned works against 
every pre-existing method of instruction : that which had made 
the greatest noise was upon the infamous fiction of Spelling 
Books: A more lying, roundabout, puzzle-headed delusion 

than that by which we confuse the clear instincts of truth in 
our accursed system of spelling, was never concocted by the 
father of falsehood.” Such was the exordium of this famous 
treatise. “ For instance, take the monosyllable Cat. What a 
brazen forehead you must have, when you say to an infant, 
c, a, t, — spell Cat : that is, three sounds forming a totally 
opposite compound — opposite in every detail, opposite in the 
whole — compose a poor little monosyllable, which, if you would 
but say the simple truth, the child will learn to spell merely by 
looking at it ! How can three sounds, which run thus to the 
ear see — eh — tee, compose the sound cat ? Don’t they rather 
compose the sound see-eli-te , or ceaty f How can a system of 
education flourish that begins by so monstrous a falsehood, which 
the sense of hearing suffices to contradict? No wonder that 
the hornbook is the despair of mothers ! ” From this instance, 
the reader will perceive that Dr. Herman, in his theory of educa- 
tion, began at the beginning ! — he took the bull fairly by the 
horns. As for the rest, upon a broad principle of eclecticism, 
he had combined together every new patent invention for 
youthful idea-shooting. He had taken his trigger from Hofwyl ; 
he had bought his wadding from Hamilton ; he had got his 
copper-caps from Bell and Lancaster. The youthful idea ! he 
had rammed it tight ! — he had rammed it loose ! — he had rammed 
it vrith pictorial illustrations! — he had rammed it with the 
monitorial system !— he had rammed it in every conceivable way, 
and with every imaginable ramrod ; but I have mournful doubts 
whether he shot the youthful idea an inch farther than it did 
under the old mechanism of flint and steel ! Nevertheless, as 
Dr. Herman really did teach a great many things too much 
neglected at schools ; as, besides Latin and Greek, he taught 
a vast variety in that vague infinite nowadays called “ useful 
knowledge ; ” as he engaged lecturers on chemistry, engineering, 
and natural history ; as arithmetic and the elements of physical 
science were enforced with zeal and care ; as all sorts of 
gymnastics were intermingled with the sports of the playground ; 
— so the youthful idea, if it did not go farther, spread its shots 
in a wider direction ; and a boy could not stay there five years 
without learning something, which is more than can be said of all 
schools ! He learned at least to use his eyes, and his ears, and 


24 , 


THE CAXTONS 


his limbs ; order, cleanliness, exercise, grew into habits ; and 
the school pleased the ladies and satisfied the gentlemen ; in a 
word, it thrived : and Dr. Herman, at the time I speak of, 
numbered more than one hundred pupils. Now, when the 
worthy man first commenced the task of tuition, he had pro- 
claimed the humanest abhorrence to the barbarous system of 
corporal punishment. But, alas ! as his school increased in 
numbers, he had proportionately recanted these honourable and 
anti-birchen ideas. He had, reluctantly, perhaps, — honestly, no 
doubt, but with full determination — come to the conclusion that 
there are secret springs which can only be detected by the twigs 
of the divining rod ; and having discovered with what compara- 
tive ease the whole mechanism of his little government could be 
carried on by the admission of the birch regulator, so, as he grew 
richer, and lazier, and fatter, the Philhellenic Institute spun 
along as glibly as a top kept in vivacious movement by the 
perpetual application of the lash. 

I believe that the school did not suffer in reputation from this 
sad apostasy on the part of the head-master ; on the contrary, 
it seemed more natural and English — less outlandish and 
heretical. And it was at the zenith of its renown, when, one 
bright morning, with all my clothes nicely mended, and a large 
plum-cake in my box, I was deposited at its hospitable gates. 

Amongst Dr. Herman’s various whimsicalities, there was one 
to which he had adhered with more fidelity than to the anti- 
corporal punishment articles of his creed ; and, in fact, it was 
upon this that he had caused those imposing words, “ Philhellenic 
Institute,” to blaze in gilt capitals in front of his academy. He 
belonged to that illustrious class of scholars who are now waging 
war on our popular mythologies, and upsetting all the associa- 
tions which the Etonians and Harrovians connect with the house- 
hold names of ancient history. In a word, he sought to restore 
to scholastic purity the mutilated orthography of Greek appella- 
tives. He was extremely indignant that little boys should be 
brought up to confound Zeus with Jupiter, Ares with Mars, 
Artemis with Diana — the Greek deities with the Roman ; and 
so rigidly did he inculcate the doctrine that these two sets of 
personages were to be kept constantly contradistinguished from 
each other, that his cross-examinations kept us in eternal con- 
fusion. 

“ Vat,” he would exclaim, to some new boy fresh from some 
grammar-school on the Etonian system — “ Vat do you mean by 
dranslating Zeus J upiter ? Is dat amatory, irascible, cloud-com- 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


25 


pelling god of Olympus, vid his eagle and his aegis, in the 
smallest degree resembling de grave, formal, moral Jupiter 
Optimus Maximus of the Roman capitol ? — a god, Master 
Simpkins, who would have been perfectly shocked at the idea 
of running after innocent Fraulein dressed up as a swan or a 
bull ! I put dat question to you vonce for all, Master Simpkins.” 
Master Simpkins took care to agree with the Doctor. “And 
how could you,” resumed Dr. Herman majestically, turning to 
some other criminal alumnus — “ how could you presume to 
dranslate de Ares of Homer, sir, by the audacious vulgarism 
Mars ? Ares , Master Jones, who roared as loud as ten thousand 
men when he was hurt ; or as you vill roar if I catch you calling 
him Mars again! A res, who covered seven plectra of ground; 
confound Ares, the manslayer, with the Mars or Mavors whom 
de Romans stole from de Sabines ! Mars, de solemn and calm 
protector of Rome ! Master Jones, Master Jones, you ought to 
be ashamed of yourself ! ” And then waxing enthusiastic, and 
warming more and more into German gutturals and pronuncia- 
tion, the good Doc Lor would lift up his hands, with two great 
rings on his thumbs, and exclaim — “ Und Du ! and dou. Aphro- 
dite ; dou, whose bert de seasons velcomed ! dou, who didst put 
Atonis into a coffer, and den tid durn him into an anemone ; 
dou to be called Venus by dat snivel-nosed little Master Budder- 
field ! Venus, who presided over Baumgartens and funerals, and 
nasty tinking sewers ! Venus Cloacina — O mein Gott ! Come 
here. Master Budderfield ; I must flog you for dat ; I must indeed, 
liddle boy ! ” As our Philhellenic preceptor carried his archaeo- 
logical purism into all Greek proper names, it was not likely 
that my unhappy baptismal would escape. The first time I 
signed my exercise I wrote “ Pisistratus Caxton ” in my best 
round-hand. “ And dey call your baba a scholar ! ” said the 
doctor contemptuously. “Your name, sir, is Greek ; and, as 
Greek, you vill be dood enough to write it, vith vat you call an 
e and an o — p, e, i, s, i, s, t, r, a, t, o, s. Vat can you expect for 
to come to. Master Caxton, if you don’t pay de care dat is proper 
to your own dood name — de e, and de o ? Ach ! let me see no 
more of your vile corruptions ! Mein Gott ! Pi ! ven de name 
is Pei ! ” 

The next time I wrote home to my father, modestly implying 
that I was short of cash, that a trap-bat would be acceptable, 
and that the favourite goddess amongst the boys (whether 
Greek or Roman was very immaterial) was Diva Moneta, I 
felt a glow of classical pride in signing myself “your affec- 


26 


THE CAXTONS : 


tionate Peisistratos.” The next post brought a sad damper to 
my scholastic exultation. The letter ran thus : — 

“ My dear Son, — I prefer my old acquaintances Thucydides 
and Pisistratus to Thoukudides and Peisistratos. Horace is 
familiar to me, but Horatius is only known to me as Codes. 
Pisistratus can play at trap-ball ; but I find no authority in pure 
Greek to allow me to suppose that that game was known to 
Peisistratos. I should be too happy to send you a drachma or 
so, but I have no coins in my possession current at Athens at 
the time when Pisistratus was spelt Peisistratos. — Your affec- 
tionate father, A. Caxton. 

Verily, here indeed was the first practical embarrassment pro- 
duced by that melancholy anachronism which my father had so 
prophetically deplored. However, nothing like experience to 
prove the value of compromise in this world ! Peisistratos con- 
tinued to write exercises, and a second letter from Pisistratus 
was followed by the trap-bat. 


CHAPTER II 

T WAS somewhere about sixteen when, on going home for the 
holidays, I found my mother’s brother settled among the 
household Lares. Uncle Jack, as he was familiarly called, was a 
light-hearted, plausible, enthusiastic, talkative fellow, who had 
spent three small fortunes in trying to make a large one. 

Uncle Jack was a great speculator ; but in all his speculations 
he never affected to think of himself, — it was always the good 
of his fellow-creatures that he had at heart, and in this ungrateful 
world fellow-creatures are not to be relied upon ! On coming of 
age, he inherited ,£6000 from his maternal grandfather. It 
seemed to him then that his fellow-creatures were sadly imposed 
upon by their tailors. Those ninth parts of humanity notoriously 
eked out their fractional existence by asking nine times too 
much for the clothing which civilisation, and perhaps a change 
of climate, render more necessary to us than to our predecessors, 
the Piets. Out of pure philanthropy. Uncle Jack started a 
“Grand National Benevolent Clothing Company,” which undertook 
to supply the public with inexpressibles of the best Saxon cloth 
at 7s. 6d. a pair; coats, superfine, £l 18s. ! and waistcoats at so 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


27 


much per dozen — they were all to be worked off by steam. Thus 
the rascally tailors were to be put down, humanity clad, and the 
philanthropists rewarded (but that was a secondary consideration) 
with a clear return of 30 per cent. In spite of the evident 
charitableness of this Christian design, and the irrefragable cal- 
culations upon which it wa$ based, this company died a victim 
to the ignorance and unthankfulness of our fellow-creatures. 
And all that remained of Jack’s <£6000 was a fifty-fourth share 
in a small steam-engine, a large assortment of ready-made panta- 
loons, and the liabilities of the directors. 

Uncle Jack disappeared, and went on his travels. The same 
spirit of philanthropy which characterised the speculations of his 
purse attended the risks of his person. Uncle Jack had a natural 
leaning towards all distressed communities : if any tribe, race, or 
nation was down in the world. Uncle Jack threw himself plump 
into the scale to redress the balance. Poles, Greeks (the last 
were then fighting the Turks), Mexicans, Spaniards — Uncle Jack 
thrust his nose into all their squabbles ! — Heaven forbid I should 
mock thee, poor Uncle Jack ! for those generous predilections 
towards the unfortunate ; only, whenever a nation is in a mis- 
fortune, there is always a job going on ! The Polish cause, the 
Greek cause, the Mexican cause, and the Spanish cause, are 
necessarily mixed up with loans and subscriptions. These 
Continental patriots, when they take up the sword with one 
hand, generally contrive to thrust the other hand deep into 
their neighbour’s breech es-pockets ! Uncle Jack went to Greece, 
thence he went to Spain, thence to Mexico. No doubt he was 
of great service to those afflicted populations, for he came back 
with unanswerable proof of their gratitude, in the shape of 
£3000. Shortly after this appeared a prospectus of the “ New, 
Grand, National, Benevolent Insurance Company, for the 
Industrious Classes.” This invaluable document, after setting 
forth the immense benefits to society arising from habits of 
providence, and the introduction of insurance companies — proving 
the infamous rate of premiums exacted by the existent offices, 
and their inapplicability to the wants of the honest artisan, and 
declaring that nothing but the purest intentions of benefiting 
their fellow-creatures, and raising the moral tone of society, had 
led the directors to institute a new society, founded on the 
noblest principles and the most moderate calculations — proceeded 
to demonstrate that twenty-four and a half per cent. w r as the 
smallest possible return the shareholders could anticipate. The 
company began under the fairest auspices: an archbishop was 


28 


THE CAXTONS: 


caught as president, on the condition always that he should give 
nothing but his name to the society. Uncle Jack — more 
euphoniously designated as “ the celebrated philanthropist, John 
Jones Tibbets, Esquire ” — was honorary secretary, and the 
capital stated at two millions. But such was the obtuseness of 
the industrious classes, so little did they perceive the benefits of 
subscribing one-and-ninepence a week from the age of twenty- 
one to fifty, in order to secure at the latter age the annuity of 
,£18, that the company dissolved into thin air, and with it dis- 
solved Uncle Jack’s £3000. Nothing more was then seen or 
heard of him for three years. So obscure was his existence, that 
on the death of an aunt who left him a small farm in Cornwall, 
it was necessary to advertise that “ If John Jones Tibbets, Esq., 
would apply to Messrs. Blunt & Tin, Lothbury, between the 
hours of ten and four, he would hear of something to his advan- 
tage.” But, even as a conjuror declares that he will call the 
ace of spades, and the ace of spades, that you thought you had 
safely under your foot, turns up on the table — so with this 
advertisement suddenly turned up Uncle Jack. With incon- 
ceivable satisfaction did’ the new landowner settle himself in 
his comfortable homestead. The farm, which was about two 
hundred acres, was in the best possible condition, and saving 
one or two chemical preparations, which cost Uncle Jack, upon 
the most scientific principles, thirty acres of buckwheat, the 
ears of which came up, poor things, all spotted and speckled, as 
if they had been inoculated with the small-pox, Uncle Jack for 
the first two years was a thriving man. Unluckily, however, 
one day Uncle Jack discovered a coal-mine in a beautiful field 
of Swedish turnips ; in another week the house was full of 
engineers and naturalists, and in another month appeared, in my 
uncle’s best style, much improved by practice, a prospectus of 
the “ Grand National Anti-Monopoly Coal Company, instituted 
on behalf of the poor householders of London, and against the 
Monster Monopoly of the London Coal Wharfs. 

“ A vein of the finest coal has been discovered on the estate of 
the celebrated philanthropist, John Jones Tibbets, Esq. This 
new mine, the Molly Wheel, having been satisfactorily tested 
by that eminent engineer, Giles Compass, Esq., promises an 
inexhaustible field to the energies of the benevolent and the 
wealth of the capitalist. It is calculated that the best coals may 
be delivered, screened, at the mouth of the Thames, for 18s. 
per load, yielding a profit of not less than forty-eight per cent, 
to the shareholders. Shares, £50, to be paid in five instal- 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


29 


ments. Capital to be subscribed, one million. For shares, early 
application must be made to Messrs. Blunt & Tin, solicitors, 
Lothbury.” 

Here, then, was something tangible for fellow-creatures to go 
on — there was land, there was a mine, there was coal, and there 
actually came shareholders and capital. Uncle Jack was so per- 
suaded that his fortune was now to be made, and had, moreover, 
so great a desire to share the glory of ruining the monster mono- 
poly of the London wharfs, that he refused a very large offer to 
dispose of the property altogether, remained chief shareholder, 
and removed to London, where he set up his carriage, and gave 
dinners to his fellow-directors. For no less than three years 
did this company flourish, having submitted the entire direction 
and working of the mines to that eminent engineer, Giles Com- 
pass — twenty per cent, was paid regularly by that gentleman to 
the shareholders, and the shares were at more than cent, per 
cent., when one bright morning Giles Compass, Esq., unex- 
pectedly removed himself to that wider field for genius like his, 
the United States ; and it was discovered that the mine had for 
more than a year run itself into a great pit of water, and that 
Mr. Compass had been paying the shareholders out of their own 
capital. My uncle had the satisfaction this time of being ruined 
in very good company ; three doctors of divinity, two county 
members, a Scotch lord, and an East India director, were all in 
the same boat — that boat which went down with the coal-mine 
into the great water-pit ! 

It was just after this event that Uncle Jack, sanguine and 
light-hearted as ever, suddenly recollected his sister, Mrs. Caxton, 
and not knowing where else to dine, thought he would repose 
his limbs under my father’s trabes citrea, which the ingenious 
W. S. Landor opines should be translated “ mahogany.” You 
never saw a more charming man than Uncle Jack. All plump 
people are more popular than thin people. There is something 
jovial and pleasant in the sight of a round face ! What con- 
spiracy could succeed when its head was a lean and hungry- 
looking fellow, like Cassius? If the Roman patriots had had 
Uncle Jack amongst them, perhaps they would never have 
furnished a tragedy to Shakspeare. Uncle Jack was as plump 
as a partridge — not unwieldy, not corpulent, not obese, not 
“vastus,” which Cicero objects to in an orator — but every crevice 
comfortably filled up. Like the ocean, “ time wrote no wrinkles 
on his glassy (or brassy) brow.” His natural lines were all upward 
curves, his smile most ingratiating, his eye so frank, even his 


30 


THE CAXTONS : 


trick of rubbing his clean, well-fed, English-looking hands, had 
something about it coaxing and debonnaire, something that actu- 
ally decoyed you into trusting your money into hands so pre- 
possessing. Indeed, to him might be fully applied the expression 
— “ Sedem animae in extremis digitis habet ; ” “ He had his soul’s 
seat in his finger-ends.” The critics observe that few men have 
ever united in equal perfection the imaginative with the scientific 
faculties. “ Happy he,” exclaims Schiller, “who combines the 
enthusiast’s warmth with the worldly man’s light ” — light and 
warmth, Uncle Jack had them both. He was a perfect symphony 
of bewitching enthusiasm and convincing calculation. Dicaeopolis 
in the Acharnenses, in presenting a gentleman called Nicharchus 
to the audience, observes — “ He is small, I confess, but there is 
nothing lost in him ; all is knave that is not fool.” Parodying 
the equivocal compliment, I may say that though Uncle Jack 
was no giant, there was nothing lost in him. Whatever was 
not philanthropy was arithmetic, and whatever was not arith- 
metic was philanthropy. He would have been equally dear to 
Howard and to Cocker. Uncle Jack was comely, too — clear- 
skinned and florid, had a little mouth, with good teeth, wore no 
whiskers, shaved his beard as close as if it were one of his grand 
national companies ; his hair, once somewhat sandy, was now 
rather greyish, which increased the respectability of his appear- 
ance ; and he wore it flat at the sides and raised in a peak at the 
top ; his organs of constructiveness and ideality were pronounced 
by Mr. Squills to be prodigious, and those freely developed 
bumps gave great breadth to his forehead. Well-shaped, too, 
was Uncle Jack, about five feet eight, the proper height for an 
active man of business. He wore a black coat; but to make 
the nap look the fresher, he had given it the relief of gilt 
buttons, on which were wrought a small crown and anchor ; at 
a distance this button looked like the king’s button, and gave 
him the air of one who has a place about Court. He always 
wore a white neckcloth without starch, a frill, and a diamond 
pin, which last furnished him with observations upon certain 
mines of Mexico, which he had a great, but hitherto unsatisfied, 
desire of seeing worked by a grand National United Britons 
Company. His waistcoat of a morning was pale buff — of an 
evening, embroidered velvet ; wherewith were -connected sundry 
schemes of an “association for the improvement of native manu- 
factures.” His trousers, matutinally, were of the colour vulgarly 
called “blotting-paper”; and he never wore boots, which, he 
said, unfitted a man for exercise, but short drab gaiters and 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


31 


square-toed shoes. ITis watch-chain was garnished with a vast 
number of seals : each seal, indeed, represented the device of 
some defunct company, and they might be said to resemble the 
scalps of the slain, w r orn by the aboriginal Iroquois — concerning 
whom, indeed, he had once entertained philanthropic designs, 
compounded of conversion to Christianity on the principles of the 
English Episcopal Church, and of an advantageous exchange of 
beaver-skins for Bibles, brandy, and gunpowder. 

That Uncle Jack should win my heart was no wonder; my 
mother’s he had always won from her earliest recollection of his 
having persuaded her to let her great doll (a present from her 
godmother) be put up to a raffle for the benefit of the chimney- 
sweepers. “ So like him — so good ! ” she would often say pen- 
sively ; “ they paid sixpence apiece for the raffle — twenty tickets, 
and the doll cost £2. Nobody was taken in, and the doll, poor 
thing (it had such blue eyes !), went for a quarter of its value. 
But Jack said nobody could guess what good the ten shillings 
did to the chimney-sweepers.” Naturally enough, I say, my 
mother liked Uncle Jack ; but my father liked him quite as well, 
and that was a strong proof of my uncle's powers of captivation. 
However, it is noticeable that when some retired scholar is once 
interested in an active man of the world, he is more inclined to 
admire him than others are. Sympathy with such a companion 
gratifies at once his curiosity and his indolence ; he can travel 
with him, scheme with him, fight with him, go with him through 
all the adventures of which his own books speak so eloquently, 
and all the time never stir from his easy-chair. My father said 
“that it was like listening to Ulysses to hear Uncle Jack!” 
Uncle Jack, too, had been in Greece and Asia Minor, gone over 
the site of the siege of Troy, ate figs at Marathon, shot hares in 
the Peloponnesus, and drank three pints of brown stout at the 
top of the Great Pyramid. 

Therefore, Uncle Jack was like a book of reference to my father. 
Verily at times he looked on him as a book, and took him down 
after dinner as he would a volume of Dodwell or Pausanias. In 
fact, I believe that scholars who never move from their cells are 
not the less an eminently curious, bustling, active race, rightly 
understood. Even as old Burton saith of himself — “ Though I 
live a collegiate student, and lead a monastic life, sequestered 
from those tumults and troubles of the world, I hear and see 
what is done abroad, how others run, ride, turmoil, and macerate 
themselves in town and country;” which citation sufficeth to 
show that scholars are naturally the most active men of the 


3 2 


THE CAXTONS 


world, only that while their heads plot with Augustus, fight with 
Julius, sail with Columbus, and change the face of the globe with 
Alexander, Attila, or Mahomet, there is a certain mysterious 
attraction, which our improved knowledge of mesmerism will 
doubtless soon explain to the satisfaction of science, between 
that extremer and antipodal part of the human frame, called in 
the vulgate “ the seat of honour,” and the stuffed leather of an 
armed chair. Learning somehow or other sinks down to that 
part into which it was first driven, and produces therein a 
leaden heaviness and weight, which counteract those lively 
emotions of the brain, that might otherwise render students 
too mercurial and agile for the safety of established order. I 
leave this conjecture to the consideration of experimentalists 
in the physics. 

I was still more delighted than my father with Uncle Jack. 
He was full of amusing tricks, could conjure wonderfully, 
make a bunch of keys dance a hornpipe, and if ever you gave 
him half-a-crown, he was sure to turn it into a halfpenny. 
He was only unsuccessful in turning my halfpennies into half- 
crowns. 

We took long walks together, and in the midst of his most 
diverting conversation my uncle was always an observer. He 
would stop to examine the nature of the soil, fill my pockets 
(not his own) with great lumps of clay, stones, and rubbish, to 
analyse when he got home, by the help of some chemical ap- 
paratus he had borrowed from Mr. Squills. He would stand 
an hour at a cottage door, admiring the little girls who were 
straw-platting, and then walk into the nearest farm-houses, to 
suggest the feasibility of “a national straw-plat association.” 
All this fertility of intellect was, alas ! wasted in that ingrata 
terra into which Uncle Jack had fallen. No squire could be 
persuaded into the belief that his mother-stone was pregnant 
with minerals ; no farmer talked into weaving straw-plat into a 
proprietary association. So, even as an ogre, having devastated 
the surrounding country, begins to cast a hungry eye on his 
own little ones. Uncle Jack’s mouth, long defrauded of juicier 
and more legitimate morsels, began to water for a bite of my 
innocent father. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


33 


CHAPTER III 

jV T this time we were living in what may be called a very 
respectable style for people who made no pretence to osten- 
tation. On the skirts of a large village stood a square red brick 
house, about the date of Queen Anne. Upon the top of the house 
was a balustrade ; why. Heaven knows — for nobody, except our 
great tom-cat Ralph, ever walked upon the leads — but so it was, 
and so it often is in houses from the time of Elizabeth, yea, 
even to that of Victoria. This balustrade was divided by low 
piers, on each of which was placed a round ball. The centre of 
the house was distinguishable by an architrave, in the shape of 
a triangle, under which was a niche, probably meant for a figure, 
but the figure was not forthcoming. Below this was the window 
(encased with carved pilasters) of my dear mothers little sitting- 
room ; and lower still, raised on a flight of six steps, was a 
very handsom e-looking door, with a projecting porch. All the 
windows, with smallish panes and largish frames, were relieved 
with stone copings ; — so that the house had an air of solidity, 
and well-to-do-ness about it — nothing tricky on the one hand, 
nothing decayed on the other. The house stood a little back 
from the garden gates, which were large, and set between two 
piers surmounted with vases. Many might object, that in wet 
weather you had to walk some way to your carriage ; but we 
obviated that objection by not keeping a carriage. To the 
right of the house the enclosure contained a little lawn, a laurel 
hermitage, a square pond, a modest green-house, and half-a- 
dozen plots of mignonette, heliotrope, roses, pinks, sweet- 
william, &c. To the left spread the kitchen-garden, lying 
screened by espaliers yielding the finest apples in the neigh- 
bourhood, and divided by three winding gravel walks, of which 
the extremest was backed by a wall, whereon, as it lay full 
south, peaches, pears, and nectarines sunned themselves early 
into well-remembered flavour. This walk was appropriated to 
my father. Book in hand, he would, on fine days, pace to and 
fro, often stopping, dear man, to jot down a pencil-note, gesti- 
culate, or soliloquise. And there, when not in his study, my 
mother would be sure to find him. In these deambulations, 
as he called them, he had generally a companion so extra- 
ordinary, that I expect to be met with a hillalu of incredulous 
contempt when I specify it. Nevertheless I vow and protest 

c 


3 J > ) 



34 


THE CAXTONS: 


that it is strictly true, and no invention of an exaggerating 
romancer. It happened one day that my mother had coaxed 
Mr. Caxton to walk with her to market. By the way they 
passed a sward of green, on which sundry little boys were 
engaged upon the lapidation of a lame duck. It seemed that 
the duck was to have been taken to market, when it was dis- 
covered not only to be lame, but dyspeptic ; perhaps some 
weed had disagreed with its ganglionic apparatus, poor thing. 
However that be, the goodwife had declared that the duck was 
good for nothing ; and upon the petition of her children, it had 
been consigned to them for a little innocent amusement, and to 
keep them out of harm’s way. My mother declared that she 
never before saw her lord and master roused to such animation. 
He dispersed the urchins, released the duck, carried it home, 
kept it in a basket by the fire, fed it and physicked it till it 
recovered ; and then it was consigned to the square pond. 
But lo ! the duck knew its benefactor ; and whenever my 
father appeared outside his door, it would catch sight of him, 
flap from the pond, gain the lawn, and hobble after him (for 
it never quite recovered the use of its left leg), till it reached 
the walk by the peaches ; and there sometimes it would sit, 
gravely watching its master’s deambulations ; sometimes stroll 
by his side, and, at all events, never leave him till, at his return 
home, he fed it with his own hands ; and, quacking her peaceful 
adieus, the nymph then retired to her natural element. 

With the exception of my mother’s favourite morning-room, 
the principal sitting-rooms — that is, the study, the dining-room, 
and what was emphatically called “ the best drawing-room,” 
which was only occupied on great occasions — looked south. Tall 
beeches, firs, poplars, and a few oaks backed the house, and 
indeed surrounded it on all sides but the south ; so that it was 
well sheltered from the winter cold and the summer heat. Our 
principal domestic, in dignity and station, was Mrs. Primmins, 
who was waiting gentlewoman, housekeeper, and tyrannical 
dictatrix of the whole establishment. Two other maids, a 
gardener, and a footman, composed the rest of the serving 
household. Save a few pasture-fields, which he let, my father 
was not troubled with land. His income was derived from the 
interest of about £15,000, partly in the Three per Cents., partly 
on mortgage ; and what with my mother and Mrs. Primmins, 
this income always yielded enough to satisfy my father’s single 
hobby for books, pay for my education, and entertain our 
neighbours, rarely, indeed, at dinner, but very often at tea. My 



A FAMILY PICTURE 


35 


dear mother boasted that our society was very select. It con- 
sisted chiefly of the clergyman and his family, two old maids 
who gave themselves great airs, a gentleman who had been in 
the East India service, and who lived in a large white house at 
the top of the hill ; some half-a-dozen squires and their wives 
and children ; Mr. Squills, still a bachelor : and once a year 
cards were exchanged — and dinners too — with certain aristocrats 
who inspired my mother with a great deal of unnecessary awe ; 
since she declared they were the most good-natured, easy people 
in the world, and always stuck their cards in the most con- 
spicuous part of the looking-glass frame over the chimney-piece 
of the best drawing-room. Thus you perceive that our natural 
position was one highly creditable to us, proving the soundness 
of our finances and the gentility of our pedigree — of which last 
more hereafter. At present I content myself with saying on 
that head, that even the proudest of the neighbouring squirearchs 
always spoke of us as a very ancient family. But all my father 
ever said, to evince pride of ancestry, was in honour of William 
Caxton, citizen and printer in the reign of Edward IV . — “ Clarum 
et venerabile nomen ! ” an ancestor a man of letters might be 
justly vain of. 

“ Heus,” said my father, stopping short, and lifting his eyes 
from the Colloquies of Erasmus, " salve multum, jucundissime.” 

Uncle Jack was not much of a scholar, but he knew enough 
of Latin to answer, “ Salve tantundem, mi frater.” 

My father smiled approvingly. “ I see you comprehend true 
urbanity, or politeness, as we phrase it. There is an elegance in 
addressing the husband of your sister as brother. Erasmus com- 
mends it in his opening chapter, under the head of f Salutandi 
formulae.’ And, indeed,” added my father thoughtfully, “ there 
is no great difference between politeness and affection. My 
author here observes that it is polite to express salutation in 
certain minor distresses of nature. One should salute a gentle- 
man in yawning, salute him in hiccuping, salute him in sneezing, 
salute him in coughing ; and that evidently because of your 
interest in his health ; for he may dislocate his jaw in yawn- 
ing, and the hiccup is often a symptom of grave disorder, and 
sneezing is perilous to the small blood-vessels of the head, and 
coughing is either a tracheal, bronchial, pulmonary, or ganglionic 
affection.” 

“Very true. The Turks always salute in sneezing, and they 
are a remarkably polite people,” said Uncle Jack. “ But, my 
dear brother, I was just looking with admiration at these apple- 


36 


THE CAXTONS: 


trees of yours. I never saw finer. I am a great judge of 
apples. I find, in talking with my sister, that you make very 
little profit by them. That’s a pity. One might establish a 
cider orchard in this county. You can take your own fields in 
hand ; you can hire more, so as to make the whole, say a 
hundred acres. You can plant a very extensive apple-orchard 
on a grand scale. I have just run through the calculations ; 
they are quite startling. Take 40 trees per acre — that’s the 
proper average — at 1 s. 6d. per tree ; 4000 trees for 1 00 acres, 
£ 300 ; labour of digging, trenching, say <£10 an acre — total for 
100 acres, £1000. Pave the bottoms of the holes to prevent 
the tap-root striking down into the bad soil — oh, I am very 
close and careful, you see, in all minutiae ! always was — pave 
’em with rubbish and stones, 6d. a hole; that for 4000 trees 
the 100 acres is £100. Add the rent of the land at 30s. an 
acre, £150. And how stands the total?” Here Uncle Jack 
proceeded rapidly ticking off the items with his fingers : — 



“ Trees .... 

. £ 300 


Labour .... 

1000 


Paving holes 

100 


Rent .... 

150 


Total 

. £1550 

That s 

your expense. Mark. — Now 

to the profit. Orchards 

Kent 

realise £100 an acre, some 

even £150; but let’s 


moderate, say only £50 an acre, and your gross profit per year, 
from a capital of £1550, will be £5000, — £5000 a year. Think 
of that, brother Caxton. Deduct 10 per cent., or £500 a year, 
for gardeners’ wages, manure, &c., and the net product is £4500. 
Your fortune’s made, man — it is made — I wish you joy ! ” And 
Uncle Jack rubbed his hands. 

“ Bless me, father,” said eagerly the young Pisistratus, who 
had swallowed with ravished ears every syllable and figure of 
this inviting calculation, “why, we should be as rich as Squire 
Rollick; and then, you know, sir, you could keep a pack of 
fox-hounds.” 

“ And buy a large library,” added Uncle Jack, with more 
subtle knowledge of human nature as to its appropriate tempta- 
tions. “ There’s my friend the archbishop’s collection to be 
sold.” 

Slowly recovering his breath, my father gently turned his 
eyes from one to the other ; and then, laying his left hand on 


A FAMILY PICTURE 37 

my head, while with the right he held up Erasmus rebukingly 
to Uncle Jack, said — 

“ See how easily you can sow covetousness and avidity in the 
youthful mind. Ah, brother ! ” 

“You are too severe, sir. See how the dear boy hangs his 
head ! Fie ! — natural enthusiasm of his years — ‘ gay hope my 
fancy fed,’ as the poet says. Why, for that fine boy’s sake, 
you ought not to lose so certain an occasion of wealth, I 
may say, untold. For, observe, you will form a nursery of 
crabs : each year you go on grafting and enlarging your planta- 
tion, renting, nay, why not buying, more land ? Gad, sir ! 
in twenty years you might cover half the country; but say 
you stop short at 2000 acres, why, the net profit is <£90,000 
a year. A duke’s income — a duke’s — and going a-begging, as 
I may say.” 

“ But stop,” said I modestly ; “ the trees don’t grow in a 
year. I know when our last apple-tree was planted — it is five 
years ago — it was then three years old, and it only bore one half- 
bushel last autumn.” 

“What an intelligent lad it is ! — Good head there. Oh, he’ll 
do credit to his great fortune, brother,” said Uncle Jack approv- 
ingly. “True, my boy. But in the meanwhile we could fill 
the ground, as they do in Kent, with gooseberries and currants, 
or onions and cabbages. Nevertheless, considering we are not 
great capitalists, I am afraid we must give up a share of our 
profits to diminish our outlay. So hark-ye, Pisistratus — (look at 
him, brother — simple as he stands there, I think he is born with 
a silver spoon in his mouth) — hark-ye, now to the mysteries of 
speculation. Your father shall quietly buy the land, and then, 
presto ! we will issue a prospectus, and start a company. Associa- 
tions can wait five years for a return. Every year, meanwhile, 
increases the value of the shares. Your father takes, we say, 
fifty shares at £50 each, paying only an instalment of £2 a share. 
He sells 35 shares at cent, per cent. He keeps the remaining 
15, and his fortune’s made all the same ; only it is not quite so 
large as if he had kept the whole concern in his own hands. 
What say you now, brother Caxton ? f Visne edere pomum ? ’ as 
we used to say at school.” 

“ I don’t want a shilling more than I have got,” said my 
father resolutely. “ My wife would not love me better ; my 
food would not nourish me more ; my boy would not, in all 
probability, be half so hardy, or a tenth part so industrious ; 
and ” 


38 


THE CAXTONS: 


“ But/’ interrupted Uncle Jack, pertinaciously, and reserving 
his grand argument for the last, “ the good you would confer on 
the community — the progress given to the natural productions 
of your country, the wholesome beverage of cider, brought 
within cheap reach of the labouring classes. If it was only for 
your sake, should I have urged this question ? should I now ? is 
it in my character ? But for the sake of the public ! man- 
kind ! of our fellow-creatures ! Why, sir, England could not 
get on if gentlemen like you had not a little philanthropy and 
speculation.” 

“ Papae ! ” exclaimed my father, “ to think that England can’t 
get on without turning Austin Caxton into an apple-merchant ! 
My dear Jack, listen. You remind me of a colloquy in this 
book ; wait a bit — here it is — Pamphagus and Codes . — Codes 
recognises his friend, who had been absent for many years, by 
his eminent and remarkable nose. — Pamphagus says, rather 
irritably, that he is not ashamed of his nose. ‘ Ashamed of it ! 
no, indeed,’ says Codes : f I never saw a nose that could be put 
to so many uses ! ’ f Ha,’ says Pamphagus (whose curiosity is 
aroused), e uses ! what uses ? ’ Whereon ( lepidissime J rater /) 
Codes, with eloquence as rapid as yours, runs on with a count- 
less list of the uses to which so vast a development of the organ 
can be applied. f If the cellar was deep, it could sniff up the 
wine like an elephant’s trunk, — if the bellows were missing, it 
could blow the fire, — if the lamp was too glaring, it could suffice 
for a shade, — it would serve as a speaking-trumpet to a herald, 
— it could sound a signal of battle in the field, — it would do for 
a wedge in wood-cutting — a spade for digging — a scythe for 
mowing — an anchor in sailing ; ’ till Pamphagus cries out, ‘ Lucky 
dog that I am ! and I never knew before what a useful piece of 
furniture I carried about with me.’ ” My father paused and 
strove to whistle, but that effort of harmony failed him — and he 
added, smiling, “ So much for my apple-trees, brother John. 
Leave them to their natural destination of filling tarts and 
dumplings.” 

Uncle Jack looked a little discomposed for a moment ; but 
he then laughed with his usual heartiness, and saw that he had 
not yet got to my father’s blind side. I confess that my revered 
parent rose in my estimation after that conference ; and I began 
to see that a man may not be quite without common sense, 
though he is a scholar. Indeed, whether it was that Uncle 
Jack’s visit acted as a gentle stimulant to his relaxed faculties, 
or that I, now grown older and wiser, began to see his character 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


39 


more clearly, I date from those summer holidays the commence- 
ment of that familiar and endearing intimacy which ever after 
existed between my father and myself. Often I deserted the 
more extensive rambles of Uncle Jack, or the greater allure- 
ments of a cricket-match in the village, or a day’s fishing in 
Squire Rollick’s preserves, for a quiet stroll with my father by 
the old peach wall; — sometimes silent, indeed, and already 
musing over the future, while he was busy with the past, but 
amply rewarded when, suspending his lecture, he would pour 
forth hoards of varied learning, rendered amusing by his quaint 
comments, and that Socratic satire which only fell short of wit 
because it never passed into malice. At some moments, indeed, 
the vein ran into eloquence ; and with some fine heroic senti- 
ment in his old books, his stooping form rose erect, his eye 
flashed ; and you saw that he had not been originally formed 
and wholly meant for the obscure seclusion in which his harm- 
less days now wore contentedly away. 


CHAPTER IV 

1^ GAD, sir, the country is going to the dogs ! Our sentiments 
are not represented in Parliament or out of it. The County 
Mercury has ratted, and be hanged to it ! and now we have 
not one newspaper in the whole shire to express the sentiments 
of the respectable part of the community ! ” 

This speech was made on the occasion of one of the rare dinners 
given by Mr. and Mrs. Caxton to the grandees of the neigh- 
bourhood, and uttered by no less a person than Squire Rollick, 
of Rollick Hall, chairman of the quarter-sessions. 

I confess that I (for I was permitted on that first occasion not 
only to dine with the guests, but to outstay the ladies, in virtue 
of my growing years, and my promise to abstain from the 
decanters) — 1 confess, I say, that I, poor innocent, was puzzled 
to conjecture what sudden interest in the county newspaper 
could cause Uncle Jack to prick up his ears like a war-horse at 
the sound of the drum, and rush so incontinently across the 
interval between Squire Rollick and himself. But the mind of 
that deep and truly knowing man was not to be plumbed by a 
chit of my age. You could not fish for the shy salmon in that 
pool with a crooked pin and a bobbin, as you would for minnows ; 
or, to indulge in a more worthy illustration, you could not say 


40 


THE CAXTONS : 


of him, as St. Gregory saith of the streams of Jordan, " A lamb 
could wade easily through that ford.” 

"Not a county newspaper to advocate the rights of ” 

here my uncle stopped, as if at a loss, and whispered, in my 
ear, " What are his politics ? ” " Don’t know,” answered I. 

Uncle Jack intuitively took down from his memory the phrase 
most readily at hand, and added with a nasal intonation, " the 
rights of our distressed fellow-creatures ! ” 

My father scratched his eyebrow with his forefinger, as he 
was apt to do when doubtful ; the rest of the company — a silent 
set — looked up. 

"Fellow-creatures!” said Mr. Rollick — "fellow-fiddlesticks 1 ” 
Uncle Jack was clearly in the wrong box. He drew out 
of it cautiously — "I mean,” said he, "our respectable fellow- 
creatures ; ” and then suddenly it occurred to him that a 
County Mercury would naturally represent the agricultural 
interest, and that if Mr. Rollick said that the " County Mercury 
ought to be hanged,” he was one of those politicians who had 
already begun to call the agricultural interest "a Vampire.” 
Flushed with that fancied discovery. Uncle Jack rushed on, 
intending to bear along with the stream, thus fortunately 
directing all the "rubbish ” 1 subsequently shot into Covent 
Garden and Hall of Commerce. 

"Yes, respectable fellow- creatures, men of capital and enter- 
prise ! For what are these country squires compared to our 
wealthy merchants ? What is this agricultural interest that 
professes to be the prop of the land ? ” 

"Professes!” cried Squire Rollick — "it is the prop of the 
land ; and as for those manufacturing fellows who have bought 
up the Mercury ” 

"Bought up the Mercury , have they, the villains?” cried 
Uncle Jack, interrupting the Squire, and now bursting into full 
scent — " Depend upon it, sir, it is a part of a diabolical system 
of buying up, which must be exposed manfully. — Yes, as I was 
saying, what is that agricultural interest which they desire to 
ruin? which they declare to be so bloated — which they call a 
f vampire !’ they the true blood-suckers, the venomous millocrats ! 
Fellow-creatures, sir ! I may well call distressed fellow-creatures 
the members of that much-suffering class of which you yourself 
are an ornament. What can be^more deserving of our best 

1 “We talked sad rubbish when we first began,” says Mr. Cobden in 
one of his speeches. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


41 


efforts for relief, than a country gentleman like yourself, we'll 
say — of a nominal .£5000 a year — compelled to keep up an 
establishment, pay for his fox-hounds, support the whole popula- 
tion by contributions to the poor-rates, support the whole Church 
by tithes ; all justice, jails, and prosecutions by the county rates 
— all thoroughfares by the highway rates — ground down by 
mortgages, Jews, or jointures; having to provide for younger 
children ; enormous expenses for cutting his woods, manuring 
his model farm, and fattening huge oxen till every pound of 
flesh costs him five pounds sterling in oil-cake ; and then the 
lawsuits necessary to protect his rights ; plundered on all hands 
by poachers, sheep- stealers, dog-stealers, churchwardens, over- 
seers, gardeners, gamekeepers, and that necessary rascal, his 
steward. If ever there was a distressed fellow-creature in the 
world, it is a country gentleman with a great estate.” 

My father evidently thought this an exquisite piece of banter, 
for by the corner of his mouth I saw that he chuckled inly. 

Squire Rollick, who had interrupted the speech by sundry 
approving exclamations, particularly at the mention of poor- 
rates, tithes, county -rates, mortgages, and poachers, here pushed 
the bottle to Uncle Jack, and said civilly — “ There’s a great 
deal of truth in what you say, Mr. Tibbets. The agricultural 
interest is going to ruin ; and when it does, 1 would not give 
that for Old England ! ” and Mr. Rollick snapped his finger 
and thumb. “ But what is to be done — done for the country ? 
There’s the rub.” 

“ I was just coming to that,” quoth Uncle Jack. “You say 
that you have not a county paper that upholds your cause, and 
denounces your enemies.” 

“ Not since the Whigs bought the shire Mercury .” 

“ Why, good heavens ! Mr. Rollick, how can you suppose that 
you will have justice done you, if at this time of day you neglect 
the press ? The press, sir — there it is — air we breathe ! What 
you want is a great national — no, not a national — a provincial 
proprietary weekly journal, supported liberally and steadily by 
that mighty party whose very existence is at stake. Without 
such a paper, you are gone, you are dead, extinct, defunct, 
buried alive ; with such a paper, well conducted, well edited by 
a man of the world, of education, of practical experience in agri- 
culture and human nature, mines, corn, manure, insurances, acts 
of Parliament, cattle-shows, the state of parties, and the best 
interests of society — with such a man and such a paper, you will 
carry all before you. But it must be done by subscription, by 


42 


THE CAXTONS 


association, by co-operation, by a Grand Provincial Benevolent 
Agricultural Anti-Innovating Society.” 

“ Egad, sir, you are right ! ” said Mr. Rollick, slapping his 
thigh ; “ and I'll ride over to our Lord-Lieutenant to-morrow. 
His eldest son ought to carry the county.” 

“ And he will, if you encourage the press and set up a journal,” 
said Uncle Jack, rubbing his hands, and then gently stretching 
them out, and drawing them gradually together, as if he were 
already enclosing in that airy circle the unsuspecting guineas of 
the unborn association. 

All happiness dwells more in the hope than the possession ; 
and at that moment, I dare be sworn that Uncle Jack felt a 
livelier rapture, circum prcecordia, warming his entrails, and dif- 
fusing throughout his whole frame of five feet eight the pro- 
phetic glow of the Magna Diva Moneta, than if he had enjoyed 
for ten years the actual possession of King Croesus’s privy purse. 

“ I thought Uncle Jack was not a Tory,” said I to my father 
the next day. 

My father, who cared nothing for politics, opened his eyes. 

“ Are you a Tory or Whig, papa ? ” 

“Um,” said my father — “there’s a great deal to be said on 
both sides of the question. You see, my boy, that Mrs. Primmins 
has a great many moulds for our butter-pats ; sometimes they 
come up with a crown on them, sometimes with the more 
popular impress of a cow. It is all very well for those who dish 
up the butter to print it according to their taste, or in proof of 
their abilities ; it is enough for us to butter our bread, say 
grace, and pay for the dairy. Do you understand ? ” 

“Not a bit, sir.” 

“Your namesake Pisistratus was wiser than you, then,” said 
my father. “And now let us feed the duck. Where’s your 
uncle ? ” 

“He has borrowed Mr. Squills’ mare, sir, and gone with Squire 
Rollick to the great lord they were talking of.” 

“Oho !” said my father, “brother Jack is going to print his 
butter ! ” 

And indeed Uncle Jack played his cards so well on this occa- 
sion, and set before the Lord-Lieutenant, with whom he had a 
personal interview, so fine a prospectus, and so nice a calculation, 
that before my holidays were over, he was installed in a very 
handsome office in the county town, with private apartments 
over it, and a salary of £500 a year — for advocating the cause 
of his distressed fellow-creatures, including noblemen, squires. 









































































A FAMILY PICTURE 


43 


yeomanry, farmers, and all yearly subscribers in the New Pro- 
prietary Agricultural Anti -Innovating shire Weekly 

Gazette. At the head of his newspaper Uncle Jack caused to 
be engraved a crown supported by a flail and a crook, with the 
motto, “ Pro rege et grege : ” — And that was the way in which 
Uncle Jack printed his pats of butter. 


CHAPTER V 

SEEMED to myself to have made a leap in life when I re- 
turned to school. I no longer felt as a boy. Uncle Jack, out 
of his own purse, had presented me with my first pair of Wel- 
lington boots ; my mother had been coaxed into allowing me a 
small tail to jackets hitherto tailless ; my collars, which had been 
wont, spaniel-like, to flap and fall about my neck, now, terrier- 
wise, stood erect and rampant, encompassed with a circumvalla- 
tion of whalebone, buckram, and black silk. I was, in truth, 
nearly seventeen, and I gave myself the airs of a man. Now, be 
it observed, that that crisis in adolescent existence wherein we 
first pass from Master Sisty into Mr. Pisistratus, or Pisistratus 
Caxton, Esq. — wherein we arrogate, and with tactic concession 
from our elders, the long-envied title of “ young man ” — always 
seems a sudden and imprompt upshooting and elevation. We 
do not mark the gradual preparations thereto ; we remember 
only one distinct period in which all the signs and symptoms 
burst and effloresced together ; Wellington boots, coat tail, cravat, 
down on the upper lip, thoughts on razors, reveries on young 
ladies, and a new kind of sense of poetry. 

I began now to read steadily, to understand what I did read, 
and to cast some anxious looks towards the future, -with vague 
notions that I had a place to win in the world, and that nothing 
is to be won without perseverance and labour ; and so I went 
on till I was seventeen, and at the head of the school, when 
I received the two letters I subjoin. 

1. — From Augustine Caxton, Esq. 

“ My dear Son, — I have informed Dr. Herman that you will 
not return to him after the approaching holidays. You are 
old enough now to look forward to the embraces of our beloved 
Alma Mater, and I think studious enough to hope for the 


44 


THE CAXTONS : 


honours she bestows on her worthier sons. You are already 
entered at Trinity, — and in fancy I see my youth return to me 
in your image. I see you wandering where the Cam steals its 
way through those noble gardens ; and, confusing you with 
myself, I recall the old dreams that haunted me when the 
chiming bells swung over the placid waters. f Verum secret- 
umque Mouseion , quam multa dictatis, quam multa invenitis ! * 
There at that illustrious college, unless the race has indeed 
degenerated, you will measure yourself with young giants. You 
will see those who, in the Law, the Church, the State, or the 
still cloisters of Learning, are destined to become the eminent 
leaders of your age. To rank amongst them you are not for- 
bidden to aspire ; he who in youth ( can scorn delight, and love 
laborious days,’ should pitch high his ambition. 

“ Your Uncle Jack says he has done wonders with his news- 
paper, — though Mr. Rollick grumbles, and declares that it is 
full of theories, and that it puzzles the farmers. Uncle Jack, 
in reply, contends that he creates an audience, not addresses 
one, — and sighs that his genius is thrown away in a provincial 
town. In fact, he really is a very clever man, and might do 
much in London, I dare say. He often comes over to dine and 
sleep, returning the next morning. His energy is wonderful — 
and contagious. Can you imagine that he has actually stirred 
up the flame of my vanity, by constantly poking at the bars ? 
Metaphor apart — I find myself collecting all my notes and 
commonplaces, and wondering to see how easily they fall into 
method, and take shape in chapters and books. I cannot help 
smiling when I add, that I fancy I am going to become an author; 
and smiling more when I think that your Uncle Jack should 
have provoked me into so egregious an ambition. However, I 
have read some passages of my book to your mother, and she 
says, f It is vastly fine,’ which is encouraging. Your mother 
has great good sense, though I don’t mean to say that she has 
much learning, — which is a wonder, considering that Pic de la 
Mirandola was nothing to her father. Yet he died, dear great 
man, and never printed a line, — while I — positively I blush to 
think of my temerity ! 

<f Adieu, my son ; make the best of the time that remains 
with you at the Philhellenic. A full mind is the true Pantheism, 
plena Jovis : It is only in some corner of the brain which we 
leave empty that Vice can obtain a lodging. When she knocks 
at your door, my son, be able to say, f No room for your lady- 
ship — pass on.’ Your affectionate father, A. Caxton.” 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


45 


2 . — From Mrs. Caxton. 

“ My dearest Sisty, — You are coming home ! — My heart is 
so full of that thought that it seems to me as if I could not 
write anything else. Dear child, you are coming home, as you 
have done with school, you have done with strangers, — you are 
our own, all our own son again ! You are mine again, as you 
were in the cradle, the nursery, and the garden, Sisty, when 
we used to throw daisies at each other ! You will laugh at me 
so, when I tell you, that as soon as I heard you were coming 
home for good, I crept away from the room, and went to my 
drawer where I keep, you know, all my treasures. There was 
your little cap that 1 worked myself, and your poor little nan- 
keen jacket that you were so proud to throw off — oh ! and many 
other relics of you when you were little Sisty, and I was not the 
cold, formal ‘ Mother’ you call me now, but ‘dear Mamma.’ I 
kissed them, Sisty, and said, e my little child is coming back to 
me again ! * So foolish was I, I forgot all the long years that 
have passed, and fancied I could carry you again in my arms, 
and that I should again coax you to say f God bless papa.’ Well, 
well ! I write now between laughing and crying. You cannot be 
what you were, but you are still my own dear son — your father’s 
son — dearer to me than all the world — except that father. 

“ I am so glad, too, that you will come so soon : come while 
your father is really warm with his book, and while you can 
encourage and keep him to it. For why should he not be great 
and famous? Why should not all admire him as we do? You 
know how proud of him I always was ; but I do so long to let 
the world know why I was so proud. And yet, after all, it is 
not only because he is so wise and learned, — but because he is 
so good, and has such a large noble heart. But the heart must 
appear in the book too, as well as the learning. For though it 
is full of things I don’t understand — every now and then there 
is something I do understand — that seems as if that heart spoke 
out to all the world. 

“ Your uncle has undertaken to get it published ; and your 
father is going up to town with him about it, as soon as the first 
volume is finished. 

“All are quite well except poor Mrs. Jones, who has the ague 
very bad indeed ; Primmins has made her wear a charm for it, 
and Mrs. Jones actually declares she is already much better. 
One can’t deny that there may be a great deal in such things, 
though it seems quite against the reason. Indeed your father 


46 


THE CAXTONS 


says, ‘ Why not ? A charm must be accompanied by a strong 
wish on the part of the charmer that it may succeed, — and what 
is magnetism but a wish ? ’ I don’t quite comprehend this ; 
but, like all your father says, it has more than meets the eye, 
I am quite sure. 

“ Only three weeks to the holidays, and then no more school, 
Sisty — no more school ! I shall have your room all done freshly, 
and made so pretty ; they are coming about it to-morrow. 

“ The duck is quite well, and I really don’t think it is quite 
as lame as it was. 

“God bless you, dear, dear child. Your affectionate happy 
mother, K. C.” 

The interval between these letters and the morning on which 
I was to return home seemed to me like one of those long, 
restless, yet half-dreamy days which in some infant malady I 
had passed in a sick-bed. I went through my task-work mechani- 
cally, composed a Greek ode in farewell to the Philhellenic, 
which Dr. Herman pronounced a chef -d’ oeuvre, and my father, to 
whom I sent it in triumph, returned a letter of false English with 
it, that parodied all my Hellenic barbarisms by imitating them in 
my mother tongue. However, I swallowed the leek, and consoled 
myself with the pleasing recollection that, after spending six years 
in learning to write bad Greek, I should never have any further 
occasion to avail myself of so precious an accomplishment. 

And so came the last day. Then alone, and in a kind of 
delighted melancholy, I revisited each of the old haunts. The 
robber’s cave we had dug one winter, and maintained, six of us, 
against all the police of the little kingdom. The place near the 
pales where I had fought my first battle. The old beech stump 
on which I sate to read letters from home ! With my knife, 
rich in six blades (besides a corkscrew, a pen-picker, and a 
button-hook), I carved my name in large capitals over my desk. 
Then night came, and the bell rang, and we went to our rooms. 
And I opened the window and looked out. I saw all the stars, 
and wondered which was mine — which should light to fame 
and fortune the manhood about to commence. Hope and 
Ambition were high within me ; — and yet, behind them, stood 
Melancholy. Ah ! who amongst you, readers, can now summon 
back all those thoughts, sweet and sad — all that untold, half- 
conscious regret for the past— all those vague longings for the 
future, which made a poet of the dullest on the last night 
before leaving boyhood and school for ever. 


PAET III 


CHAPTER i 

TT was a beautiful summer afternoon when the coach set me 
down at my father s gate. Mrs. Prim mins herself ran out to 
welcome me ; and I had scarcely escaped from the warm clasp 
of her friendly hand, before I was in the arms of my mother. 

As soon as that tenderest of parents was convinced that I was 
not famished, seeing that I had dined two hours ago at Dr. 
Herman’s, she led me gently across the garden towards the 
arbour. “ You will find your father so cheerful,” said she, wiping 
away a tear. “ His brother is with him.” 

I stopped. His brother ! Will the reader believe it ? — I had 
never heard that he had a brother, so little were family affairs 
ever discussed in my hearing. 

“ His brother ! ” said I. “ Have I then an Uncle Caxton as 
well as an Uncle Jack ? ” 

“Yes, my love,” said my mother. And then she added, 
“Your father and he were not such good friends as they ought 
to have been, and the Captain has been abroad. However, 
thank Heaven ! they are now quite reconciled.” 

We had time for no more — we were in the arbour. There, a 
table was spread with wine and fruit — the gentlemen were at 
their dessert ; and those gentlemen were my father. Uncle Jack, 
Mr. Squills, and — tall, lean, buttoned- to- the-chin — an erect, 
martial, majestic, and imposing personage, who seemed worthy 
of a place in my great ancestor’s “ Boke of Chivalrie.” 

All rose as I entered ; but my poor father, who was always 
slow in his movements, had the last of me. Uncle Jack had 
left the very powerful impression of his great seal-ring on my 
fingers ; Mr. Squills had patted me on the shoulder, and pro- 
nounced me “wonderfully grown”; my new-found relative had 
with great dignity said, “ Nephew, your hand, sir — I am Captain 
de Caxton ; ” and even the tame duck had taken her beak from 
her wing, and rubbed it gently between ray legs, which was hev 


48 


THE CAXTONS : 


usual mode of salutation, before my father placed his pale hand 
on my forehead, and, looking at me for a moment with unutter- 
able sweetness, said, “More and more like your mother — God 
bless you!” , 

A chair had been kept vacant for me between my father and 
his brother. I sat down in haste, and with a tingling colour on 
my cheeks and a rising at my throat, so much had the unusual 
kindness of my father’s greeting affected me ; and then there 
came over me a sense of my new position. I was no longer a 
schoolboy at home for his brief holiday : I had returned to the 
shelter of the roof-tree to become myself one of its supports. 

I was at last a man, privileged to aid or solace those dear ones 
who had ministered, as yet without return, to me. That is a 
very strange crisis in our life when we come home “ for good.” 
Home seems a different thing : before, one has been but a 
sort of guest after all, only welcomed and indulged, and little 
festivities held in honour of the released and happy child. But 
to come home for good — to have done with school and boyhood 
— is to be a guest, a child no more. It is to share the everyday 
life of cares and duties — it is to enter into the confidences of home. 
Is it not so ? I could have buried my face in my hands, and wept ! 

My hither, with all his abstraction and all his simplicity, had 
a knack now and then of penetrating at once to the heart. I 
verily believe he read all that was passing in mine as easily as if 
it had been Greek. He stole his arm gently round my waist 
and whispered, “ Hush ! ” Then lifting his voice, he cried 
aloud, “ Brother Roland, you must not let Jack have the best of 
the argument.” 

“ Brother Austin,” replied the Captain, very formally, “ Mr. 
Jack, if I may take the liberty so to call him.” 

“ You may indeed,” cried Uncle Jack. 

“ Sir,” said the Captain, bowing, “ it is a familiarity that does 
me honour. I was about to say that Mr. Jack has retired from 
the field.” 

“ Far from it,” said Squills, dropping an effervescing powder 
into a chemical mixture which he had been preparing with great 
attention, composed of sherry and lemon-juice — “far from it. 
Mr. Tibbets — whose organ of combativeness is finely developed, 
by-the-bye — was saying ” 

“ That it is a rank sin and shame in the nineteenth cen- 
tury,” quoth Uncle Jack, “that a man like my friend Captain 
Caxton ” 

“ De Caxton, sir — Mr. Jack.” 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


49 


“De Caxton — of the highest military talents, of the most 
illustrious descent — a hero sprung from heroes — should have 
served so many years, and with such distinction, in his Majesty’s 
service, and should now be only a captain on half-pay. This, I 
say, comes of the infamous system of purchase, which sets up the 
highest honours for sale as they did in the Roman empire ” 

My father pricked up his ears ; but Uncle Jack pushed on 
before my father could get ready the forces of his meditated 
interruption. 

“ A system which a little effort, a little union, can so easily 
terminate. Yes, sir,” — and Uncle Jack thumped the table, and 
two cherries bobbed up and smote Captain de Caxton on the 
nose — “ yes, sir, I will undertake to say that I could put the army 
upon a very different footing. If the poorer and more meritorious 
gentlemen, like Captain de Caxton, would, as I was just observ- 
ing, but unite in a grand anti-aristocratic association, each paying 
a small sum quarterly, we could realise a capital sufficient to 
out-purchase all these undeserving individuals, and every man of 
merit should have his fair chance of promotion.” 

“Egad, sir,” said Squills, “there is something grand in that 
— eh, Captain ? ” 

“ No, sir,” replied the Captain, quite seriously ; “ there is in 
monarchies but one fountain of honour. It would be an 
interference with a soldier’s first duty — his respect for his sove- 
reign.” 

“ On the contrary,” said Mr. Squills, “ it would still be to the 
sovereigns that one would owe the promotion.” 

“ Honour,” pursued the Captain, colouring up, and unheeding 
this witty interruption, “is the reward of a soldier. What do I 
care that a young jackanapes buys his colonelcy over my head ? 
Sir, he does not buy from me my wounds and my services. Sir, 
he does not buy from me the medal I won at Waterloo. He 
is a rich man, and I am a poor man ; he is called — colonel, 
because he paid money for the name. That pleases him ; well 
and good. It would not please me : I had rather remain a 
captain, and feel my dignity, not in my title, but in the services 
by which it has been won. A beggarly, rascally association of 
stockbrokers, for aught I know, buy me a company ! I don’t 
want to be uncivil, or I would say damn ’em — Mr.— sir — 
Jack ! ” 

A sort of thrill ran through the Captain’s audience — even 
Uncle Jack seemed touched, for he stared very hard at the grim 
veteran, and said nothing. The pause was awkward — Mr. Squills 

D 


50 


THE CAXTONS: 


broke it. “I should like/’ quoth he, “to see your Waterloo 
medal — you have it not about you ? ” 

“ Mr. Squills,” answered the Captain, “ it lies next to my 
heart while I live. It shall be buried in my coffin, and I shall 
rise with it, at the word of command, on the day of the Grand 
Review ! ” So saying, the Captain leisurely unbuttoned his 
coat, and, detaching from a piece of striped ribbon as ugly a 
specimen of the art of the silversmith (begging its pardon) as 
ever rewarded merit at the expense of taste, placed the medal 
on the table. 

The medal passed round, without a word, from hand to hand. 

“ It is strange,” at last said my father, “ how such trifles can 
be made of such value — how in one age a man sells his life for 
what in the next age he would not give a button ! A Greek 
esteemed beyond price a few leaves of olive twisted into a 
circular shape, and set upon his head — a very ridiculous head- 
gear we should now call it. An American Indian prefers a 
decoration of human scalps, which, I apprehend, we should all 
agree (save and except Mr. Squills, who is accustomed to such 
things) to be a very disgusting addition to one’s personal attrac- 
tions; and my brother values this piece of silver, which may 
be worth about five shillings, more than Jack does a gold mine, 
or I do the library of the London Museum. A time will come 
when people will think that as idle a decoration as leaves and 
scalps.” 

“ Brother,” said the Captain, “ there is nothing strange in the 
matter. It is as plain as a pike-staff to a man who understands 
the principles of honour.” 

“ Possibly,” said my father mildly. “ I should like to hear 
what you have to say upon honour. I am sure it would very 
much edify us all.” 


CHAPTER II 

my uncle Roland’s discourse upon honour 

Q.ENTLEMEN,” began the Captain, at the distinct appeal 
thus made to him — “ Gentlemen, God made the earth, but 
man made the garden. God made man, but man re-creates 
himself.” 

“ True, by knowledge,” said my father. 

“ By industry,” said Uncle Jack. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


51 


“ By the physical conditions of his body/’ said Mr. Squills. 
“ He could not have made himself other than he was at first in 
the woods and wilds if he had fins like a fish, or could only 
chatter gibberish like a monkey. Hands and a tongue, sir; 
these are the instruments of progress.” 

“ Mr. Squills,” said my father, nodding, “Anaxagoras said very 
much the same thing before you, touching the hands.” 

“I can’t help that,” answered Mr. Squills; “one could not 
open one’s lips, if one were bound to say what nobody else had 
said. But, after all, our superiority is less in our hands than the 
greatness of our thumbs.” 

“ Albinus, de Sceleto, and our own learned William Lawrence, 
have made a similar remark,” again put in my father. 

“ Hang it, sir ! ” exclaimed Squills, “ what business have you 
to know everything ? ” 

“ Everything ! No ; but thumbs furnish subjects of investiga- 
tion to the simplest understanding,” said my father modestly. 

“ Gentlemen,” recommenced my Uncle Roland, “ thumbs and 
hands are given to an Esquimaux, as well as to scholars and 
surgeons — and what the deuce are they the wiser for them ? 
Sirs, you cannot reduce us thus into mechanism. Look within. 
Man, I say, re-creates himself. How ? By the principle of 
honour. His first desire is to excel some one else — his first 
impulse is distinction above his fellows. Heaven places in his 
soul, as if it were a compass, a needle that always points to one 
end, — viz., to honour in that which those around him consider 
honourable. Therefore, as man at first is exposed to all dangers 
from wild beasts, and from men as savage as himself. Courage 
becomes the first quality mankind must honour : therefore the 
savage is courageous ; therefore he covets the praise for courage ; 
therefore he decorates himself with the skins of the beasts he 
has subdued, or the scalps of the foes he has slain. Sirs, don’t 
tell me that the skins and the scalps are only hide and leather ; 
they are trophies of honour. Don’t tell me that they are 
ridiculous and disgusting ; they become glorious as proofs that 
the savage has emerged out of the first brute-like egotism, and 
attached price to the praise which men never give except for 
works that secure or advance their welfare. By-and-by, sirs, 
our savages discover that they cannot live in safety amongst 
themselves, unless they agree to speak the truth to each other : 
therefore Truth becomes valued, and grows into a principle of 
honour ; so, brother Austin will tell us that in the primitive 
times, truth was always the attribute of a hero.” 


52 


THE CAXTONS : 


“ Right/* said my father ; “ Homer emphatically assigns it to 
Achilles.” 

“Out of truth comes the necessity for some kind of rude 
justice and law. Therefore men, after courage in the warrior, 
and truth in all, begin to attach honour to the elder, whom 
they entrust with preserving justice amongst them. So, sirs. 
Law is born ” 

“ But the first lawgivers were priests,” quoth my father. 

“Sirs, I am coming to that. Whence arises the desire of 
honour, but from man's necessity of excelling — in other words, 
of improving his faculties for the benefit of others, — though, 
unconscious of that consequence, man only strives for their 
praise ? But that desire for honour is unextinguishable, and 
man is naturally anxious to carry its rewards beyond the grave. 
Therefore, he who has slain most lions or enemies is naturally 
prone to believe that he shall have the best hunting fields in 
the country beyond, and take the best place at the banquet. 
Nature, in all its operations, impresses man with the idea of an 
invisible Power ; and the principle of honour — that is, the desire 
of praise and reward — makes him anxious for the approval which 
that Power can bestow. Thence comes the first rude idea of 
Religion ; and in the death-hymn at the stake, the savage 
chants songs prophetic of the distinctions he is about to receive. 
Society goes on ; hamlets are built ; property is established. 
He who has more than another has more power than another. 
Power is honoured. Man covets the honour attached to the 
power which is attached to possession. Thus the soil is culti- 
vated ; thus the rafts are constructed ; thus tribe trades with 
tribe ; thus Commerce is founded, and Civilisation commenced. 
Sirs, all that seems least connected with honour, as we approach 
the vulgar days of the present, has its origin in honour, and is 
but an abuse of its principles. If men nowadays are hucksters 
and traders — if even military honours are purchased, and a rogue 
buys his way to a peerage — still all arise from the desire for 
honour, which society, as it grows old, gives to the outward 
signs of titles and gold, instead of, as once, to its inward essen- 
tials, — courage, truth, justice, enterprise. Therefore, I say, sirs, 
that honour is the foundation of all improvement in mankind.” 

“You have argued like a schoolman, brother,” said Mr. Caxton 
admiringly ; “ but still, as to this round piece of silver — don’t 
we go back to the most barbarous ages in estimating so highly 
such things as have no real value in themselves — as could not 
give us one opportunity for instructing our minds ? ” 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


53 


“ Could not pay for a pair of boots/’ added Uncle Jack. 

“Or,” said Mr. Squills, “save you one twinge of the cursed 
rheumatism you have got for life from that night’s bivouac in 
the Portuguese marshes — to say nothing of the bullet in your 
cranium, and that cork-leg, which must much diminish the 
salutary effects of your constitutional walk.” 

“Gentlemen,” resumed the Captain, nothing abashed, “in 
going back to those barbarous ages, I go back to the true 
principles of honour. It is precisely because this round piece 
of silver has no value in the market that it is priceless, for thus 
it is only a proof of desert. Where would be the sense of 
service in this medal, if it could buy back my leg, or if I could 
bargain it away for forty thousand a year ? No, sirs, its value 
is this — that when I wear it on my breast, men shall say, ‘that 
formal old fellow is not so useless as he seems. He was one of 
those who saved England and freed Europe.’ And even when 
I conceal it here ” (and, devoutly kissing the medal, Uncle 
Roland restored it to its ribbon and its resting-place), “ and no 
eye sees it, its value is yet greater in the thought that my 
country has not degraded the old and true principles of honour, 
by paying the soldier who fought for her in the same coin as 
that in which you, Mr. Jack, sir, pay your bootmaker’s bill. 
No, no, gentlemen. As courage was the first virtue that honour 
called forth — the first virtue from which all safety and civilisa- 
tion proceed, so we do right to keep that one virtue at least 
clear and unsullied from all the money-making, mercenary, pay- 
me-in-cash abominations which are the vices, not the virtues, 
of the civilisation it has produced.” 

My Uncle Roland here came to a full stop; and, filling his glass, 
rose and said solemnly — “ A last bumper, gentlemen, — ‘ To the 
dead who died for England ! ’ ” 


CHAPTER III 

TNDEED, my dear, you must take it. You certainly have 
caught cold : you sneezed three times together.” 

“Yes, ma’am, because I would take a pinch of Uncle Roland’s 
snuff, just to say that I had taken a pinch out of his box — the 
honour of the thing — you know.” 

“ Ah, my dear ! what was that very clever remark you made at 
the same time, which so pleased your father — something about 
Jews and the college ? ” 


54 


THE CAXTONS : 


“ Jews and — oh ! ‘ pulverem Olympicum collegisse juvat,’ my dear 
mother — which means that it is a pleasure to take a pinch out 
of a brave man’s snuff-box. I say, mother, put down the posset. 
Yes, I’ll take it; I will, indeed. Now, then, sit here — that’s 
right — and tell me all you know about this famous old Captain. 
Imprimis, he is older than my father.” 

“ To be sure ! ” exclaimed my mother indignantly ; “ he looks 
twenty years older ; but there is only five years’ real difference. 
Your father must always look young.” 

“And why does Uncle Roland put that absurd French de before 
his name — and why were my father and he not good friends — and 
is he married — and has he any children ?” 

Scene of this conference — my own little room, new papered 
on purpose for my return for good — trellis- work paper, flowers 
and birds — all so fresh, and so new, and so clean, and so gay — 
with my books ranged in neat shelves, and a writing-table by 
the window ; and, without the window, shines the still summer 
moon. The window is a little open — you scent the flowers and 
the new-mown hay. Past eleven ; and the boy and his dear 
mother are all alone. 

“ My dear, my dear ! you ask so many questions at once.” 

“ Don’t answer them, then. Begin at the beginning, as Nurse 
Primmins does with her fairy tales, ‘ Once on a time.’ ” 

“ Once on a time, then,” said my mother — kissing me between 
the eyes — “ once on a time, my love, there was a certain clergy- 
man in Cumberland, who had two sons ; he had but a small 
living, and the boys were to make their own way in the world. 
But close to the parsonage, on the brow of a hill, rose an old 
ruin, with one tower left, and this, with half the country round 
it, had once belonged to the clergyman’s family ; but all had 
been sold — all gone piece by piece, you see, my dear, except 
the presentation to the living (what they call the advowson was 
sold too), which had been secured to the last of the family. The 
elder of these sons was your Uncle Roland — the younger was 
your father. Now I believe the first quarrel arose from the 
absurdest thing possible, as your father says ; but Roland was 
exceedingly touchy on all things connected with his ancestors. 
He was always poring over the old pedigree, or wandering 
amongst the ruins, or reading books of knight-errantry. Well, 
where this pedigree began I know not, but it seems that King 
Henry II. gave some lands in Cumberland to one Sir Adam de 
Caxton; and from that time, you see, the pedigree went regularly 
from father to son till Henry V. ; then, apparently from the dis- 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


55 


orders produced, as your father says, by the Wars of the Roses, 
there was a sad blank left — only one or two names, without dates 
or marriages, till the time of Henry VII., except that in the reign 
of Edward IV. there was one insertion of a William Caxton 
(named in a deed). Now in the village church there was a beauti- 
ful brass monument to one Sir William de Caxton, who had been 
killed at the battle of Bosworth, fighting for that wicked King 
Richard III. And about the same time there lived, as you know, 
the great printer, William Caxton. Well, your father, happening 
to be in town on a visit to his aunt, took great trouble in hunting 
up all the old papers he could find at the Heralds’ College ; and 
sure enough he was overjoyed to satisfy himself that he was 
descended, not from that poor Sir William, who had been killed 
in so bad a cause, but from the great printer, who was from a 
younger branch of the same family, and to whose descendants 
the estate came in the reign of Henry VIII. It was upon this 
that your Uncle Roland quarrelled with him ; and, indeed, I 
tremble to think that they may touch on that matter again.” 

"Then, my dear mother, I must say my uncle was wrong 
there, so far as common sense is concerned ; but still, somehow 
or other, I can understand it. Surely, this was not the only cause 
of estrangement ? ” 

My mother looked down, and moved one hand gently over 
the other, which was her way when embarrassed. " What was 
it, my own mother ? ” said I coaxingly. 

" I believe — that is, I — I think that they were both attached 
to the same young lady.” 

" How ! you don’t mean to say that my father was ever in 
love with any one but you ? ” 

"Yes, Sisty — yes, and deeply ! and,” added my mother, after 
a slight pause, and with a very low sigh, " he never was in love 
with me ; and what is more, he had the frankness to tell 
me so ! ” 

" And yet you ” 

" Married him — yes ! ” said my mother, raising the softest and 
purest eyes that ever a lover could have wished to read his fate 
in — "Yes, for the old love was hopeless. I knew that I could 
make him happy. I knew that he would love me at last, and 
he does so ! My son, your father loves me ! ” 

As she spoke, there came a blush as innocent as virgin ever 
knew, to my mother’s smooth cheek ; and she looked so fair, so 
good, and still so young, all the while, that you would have said 
that either Dusius, the Teuton fiend, or Nock, the Scandinavian 


56 


THE CAXTONS: 


sea-imp, from whom the learned assure us we derive our modern 
Daimones, “ The Deuce/’ and Old Nick, had indeed possessed my 
father, if he had not learned to love such a creature. 

I pressed her hand to my lips, but my heart was too full to 
speak for a moment or so ; and then I partially changed the 
subject. 

“ Well, and this rivalry estranged them more ? And who was 
the lady ? ” 

“Your father never told me, and I never asked,” said my 
mother simply. “ But she was very different from me, I know. 
Very accomplished, very beautiful, very high-born.” 

“ For all that, my father was a lucky man to escape her. 
Pass on. What did the Captain do ? ” 

“Why, about that time your grandfather died, and shortly 
after an aunt, on the mother’s side, who was rich and saving, 
died, and unexpectedly left them each sixteen thousand pounds. 
Your uncle, with his share, bought back, at an enormous price, 
the old castle and some land round it, which they say does not 
bring him in three hundred a year. With the little that re- 
mained he purchased a commission in the army ; and the brothers 
met no more till last week, when Roland suddenly arrived.” 

“He did not marry this accomplished young lady ? ” 

“ No ! but he married another, and is a widower.” 

“ Why, he was as inconstant as my father ; and I am sure 
without so good an excuse. How was that ? ” 

“ I don’t know. He says nothing about it.” 

“ Has he any children ? ” 

“Two, a son — by-the-bye, you must never speak about him. 
Your uncle briefly said, when I asked him what was his family, 

‘ A girl, ma’am. I had a son, but ’ 

“ ‘ He is dead/ cried your father in his kind pitying voice. 

“ ' Dead to me, brother — and you will never mention his 
name ! ’ You should have seen how stern your uncle looked. 
I was terrified.” 

“ But the girl — why did not he bring her here ? ” 

“ She is still in France, but he talks of going over for her ; and 
we have half promised to visit them both in Cumberland. But 
bless me ! is that twelve ? and the posset quite cold ! ” 

“ One word more, dearest mother — one word. My father’s 
book — is he still going on with it ? ” 

“ Oh yes, indeed ! ” cried my mother, clasping her hands ; 
“ and he must read it to you, as he does to me — you will under- 
stand it so well. I have always been so anxious that the world 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


57 


should know him, and be proud of him as we are, so — so anxious ! 
— for, perhaps, Sisty, if he had married that great lady, he would 
have roused himself, been more ambitious — and I could only 
make him happy, I could not make him great ! ” 

“ So he has listened to you at last ? ” 

“'To me ! ” said my mother, shaking her head and smiling 
gently : “ No, rather to your Uncle Jack, who, I am happy to 
say, has at length got a proper hold over him.” 

“ A proper hold, my dear mother ! Pray beware of Uncle 
Jack, or we shall all be swept into a coal-mine, or explode with 
a grand national company for making gunpowder out of tea 
leaves ! ” 

“ Wicked child ! ” said my mother, laughing ; and then, as she 
took up her candle and lingered a moment while I wound my 
watch, she said musingly, — “Yet Jack is very, very clever, — and 
if for your sake we could, make a fortune, Sisty ! ” 

“You frighten me out of my wits, mother! You are not in 
earnest ? ” 

“And if my brother could be the means of raising him in the 
world ” 

“Your brother would be enough to sink all the ships in the 
Channel, ma’am,” said I quite irreverently. I was shocked before 
the words were well out of my mouth ; and throwing my arms 
round my mother’s neck, I kissed away the pain I had inflicted. 

When I was left alone, and in my own little crib, in which my 
slumber had ever been so soft and easy,— 1 might as well have 
been lying upon cut straw. I tossed to and fro — I could not sleep. 
I rose, threw on my dressing-gown, lighted my candle, and sat 
down by the table near the window. First I thought of the 
unfinished outline of my father’s youth, so suddenly sketched 
before me. I filled up the missing colours, and fancied the 
picture explained all that had often perplexed my conjectures. 
I comprehended, I suppose by some secret sympathy in my own 
nature (for experience in mankind could have taught me little 
enough), how an ardent, serious, inquiring mind — struggling 
into passion under the load of knowledge, had, with that stimulus 
sadly and abruptly withdrawn, sunk into the quiet of passive, 
aimless study. I comprehended how, in the indolence of a happy 
but unimpassioned marriage, with a companion so gentle, so pro- 
vident and watchful, yet so little formed to rouse, and task 
and fire an intellect naturally calm and meditative, — years upon 
years had crept away in the learned idleness of a solitary scholar. 
I comprehended, too, how gradually and slowly, as my father 


58 


THE CAXTONS : 


entered that stage of middle life, when all men are most prone 
to ambition — the long-silenced whispers were heard again ; and 
the mind, at last escaping from the listless weight which a 
baffled and disappointed heart had laid upon it, saw once more, 
fair as in youth, the only true mistress of Genius — Fame. 

Oh ! how I sympathised, too, in my mother’s gentle triumph. 
Looking over the past, I could see, year after year, how she had 
stolen more and more into my father’s heart of hearts — how 
what had been kindness had grown into love, — how custom and 
habit, and the countless links in the sweet charities of home, 
had supplied that sympathy with the genial man which had 
been missed at first by the lonely scholar. 

Next I thought of the grey, eagle-eyed old soldier, with his 
ruined tower and barren acres, — and saw before me his proud, 
prejudiced, chivalrous boyhood, gliding through the ruins or 
poring over the mouldy pedigree. And this son, so disowned, — 
for what dark offence ? — an awe crept over me. And this girl 
— his ewe-lamb — his all — was she fair ? had she blue eyes like 
my mother, or a high Roman nose and beetle brows like 
Captain Roland ? I mused, and mused, and mused — and the 
candle went out — and the moonlight grew broader and stiller ; 
till at last I was sailing in a balloon with Uncle Jack, and 
had just tumbled into the Red Sea — when the well-known 
voice of Nurse Primmins restored me to life with a “God 
bless my heart ! the boy has not been in bed all this ’varsal 
night ! ” 


CHAPTER IV 



soon as I w r as dressed I hastened downstairs, for I longed 


to revisit my old haunts — the little plot of garden I had 
sown with anemones and cresses ; the walk by the peach wall ; 
the pond wherein I had angled for roach and perch. 

Entering the hall, I discovered my Uncle Roland in a great 
state of embarrassment. The maid-servant was scrubbing the 
stones at the hall-door ; she was naturally plump, — and it is 
astonishing how much more plump a female becomes when 
she is on all-fours ! — the maid-servant, then, was scrubbing the 
stones, her face turned from the Captain ; and the Captain, 
evidently meditating a sortie, stood ruefully gazing at the 
obstacle before him and hemming aloud. Alas, the maid- 


A FAMILY PICTURE 59 

servant was deaf! I stopped, curious to see how Uncle Roland 
would extricate himself from the dilemma. 

Finding that his hems were in vain, my uncle made himself 
as small as he could, and glided close to the left of the wall : 
at that instant the maid turned abruptly round towards the 
right, and completely obstructed, by this manoeuvre, the slight 
crevice through which hope had dawned on her captive. My 
uncle stood stock-still, — and, to say the truth, he could not 
have stirred an inch without coming into personal contact with 
the rounded charms which blockaded his movements. My uncle 
took off his hat and scratched his forehead in great perplexity. 
Presently, by a slight turn of the flanks, the opposing party, 
while leaving him an opportunity of return, entirely precluded 
all chance of egress in that quarter. My uncle retreated in 
haste, and now presented himself to the right wing of the 
enemy. He had scarcely done so when, without looking be- 
hind her, the blockading party shoved aside the pail that 
crippled the range of her operations, and so placed it that it 
formed a formidable barricade, which my uncle’s cork leg had 
no chance of surmounting. Therewith Captain Roland lifted 
his eyes appealingly to heaven, and I heard him distinctly 
ejaculate — 

" Would to heaven she were a creature in breeches ! ” 

But happily at this moment the maid-servant turned her 
head sharply round, and, seeing the Captain, rose in an instant, 
moved away the pail, and dropped a frightened curtsey. 

My Uncle Roland touched his hat, "I beg you a thousand 
pardons, my good girl,” said he ; and, with a half bow, he slid 
into the open air. 

"You have a soldier’s politeness, uncle,” said I, tucking my 
arm into Captain Roland’s. 

“ Tush, my boy,” said he, smiling seriously, and colouring up 
to the temples ; “ tush, say a gentleman’s ! To us, sir, every 
woman is a lady, in right of her sex.” 

Now, I had often occasion later to recall that aphorism of my 
uncle’s ; and it served to explain to me how a man, so prejudiced 
on the score of family pride, never seemed to consider it an 
offence in my father to have married a woman whose pedigree 
was as brief as my dear mother’s. Had she been a Mont- 
morenci, my uncle could not have been more respectful and 
gallant than he was to that meek descendant of the Tibbetses. 
He held, indeed, which I never knew any other man, vain of 
family, approve or support, — a doctrine deduced from the 


60 


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following syllogisms: 1st, that birth was not valuable in it- 
self, but as a transmission of certain qualities which descent 
from a race of warriors should perpetuate, viz., truth, courage, 
honour ; 2ndly, That, whereas from the woman’s side we derive 
our more intellectual faculties, from the man’s we derive our 
moral ; a clever and witty man generally has a clever and witty 
mother ; a brave and honourable man, a brave and honourable 
father. Therefore, all the qualities which attention to race 
should perpetuate, are the manly qualities traceable only from 
the father s side. Again, he held that while the aristocracy 
have higher and more chivalrous notions, the people generally 
have shrewder and livelier ideas. Therefore, to prevent gentle- 
men from degenerating into complete dunderheads, an admix- 
ture with the people, provided always it was on the female side, 
was not only excusable, but expedient ; and, finally, my uncle 
held, that, whereas a man is a rude, coarse, sensual animal, and 
requires all manner of associations to dignify and refine him, 
women are so naturally susceptible of everything beautiful in 
sentiment and generous in purpose, that she who is a true 
woman is a fit peer for a king. Odd and preposterous notions, 
no doubt, and capable of much controversy, so far as the doctrine 
of race (if that be any way tenable) is concerned ; but then the 
plain fact is, that my Uncle Roland was as eccentric and con- 
tradictory a gentleman — as — as — why, as you and I are, if we 
once venture to think for ourselves. 

“ Well, sir, and what profession are you meant for ? ” asked 
my uncle — “ not the army, I fear ? ” 

“ I have never thought of the subject, uncle.” 

“ Thank Heaven,” said Captain Roland, “we have never yet 
had a lawyer in the family ! nor a stockbroker, nor a tradesman 
— ahem ! ” 

I saw that my great ancestor the printer suddenly rose up in 
that hem. 

“ Why, uncle, there are honourable men in all callings.” 

“ Certainly, sir. But in all callings honour is not the first 
principle of action.” 

“ Rut it may be, sir, if a man of honour pursue it ! There are 
some soldiers who have been great rascals 1 ” 

My uncle looked posed, and his black brows met thoughtfully. 

“You are right, boy, I dare say,” he answered somewhat 
mildly. “ But do you think that it ought to give me as much 
pleasure to look on my old ruined tower, if I knew it had been 
bought by some herring-dealer, like the first ancestor of the 


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61 


Poles, as I do now, when I know it was given to a knight and 
gentleman (who traced his descent from an Anglo- Dane in 
the time of King Alfred), for services done in Aquitaine and 
Gascony, by Henry the Plantagenet ? And do you mean to tell 
me that I should have been the same man if I had not from a 
boy associated that old tower with all ideas of what its owners 
were, and should be, as knights and gentlemen ? Sir, you 
would have made a different being of me, if at the head of my 
pedigree you had clapped a herring-dealer ; though, I dare say, 
the herring-dealer might have been as good a man as ever the 
Anglo-Dane was ! God rest him 1 ” 

“ And for the same reason, I suppose, sir, that you think my 
father never would have been quite the same being he is, if he 
had not made that notable discovery touching our descent from 
the great William Caxton, the printer.” 

My uncle bounded as if he had been shot ; bounded so in- 
cautiously, considering the materials of which one leg was com- 
posed, that he would have fallen into a strawberry-bed if I had 
not caught him by the arm. 

“ Why, you — you — you young jackanapes,” cried the Captain, 
shaking me off as soon as he had regained his equilibrium. 
“You do not mean to inherit that infamous crotchet my brother 
has got into his head ? You do not mean to exchange Sir 
William de Caxton, who fought and fell at Bos worth, for the 
mechanic, who sold black-letter pamphlets in the Sanctuary at 
Westminster ? ” 

“ That depends on the evidence, uncle ! ” 

“No, sir, like all noble truths, it depends upon faith. Men, 
nowadays,” continued my uncle, with a look of ineffable dis- 
gust, “ actually require that truths should be proved.” 

“ It is a sad conceit on their part, no doubt, my dear uncle. 
But till a truth is proved, how can we know that it is a truth ? ” 

I thought that in that very sagacious question I had effectually 
caught my uncle. Not I. He slipped through it like an eel. 

“Sir,” said he, “whatever, in Truth, makes a man’s heart 
warmer, and his soul purer, is a belief, not a knowledge. Proof, 
sir, is a handcuff — belief is a wing ! Want proof as to an 
ancestor in the reign of King Richard ! Sir, you cannot even 
prove to the satisfaction of a logician that you are the son of 
your own father. Sir, a religious man does not want to reason 
about his religion — religion is not mathematics. Religion is to 
be felt, not proved. There are a great many things in the 
religion of a good man w hich are not in the catechism. Proof ! ” 


62 


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continued my uncle, growing violent — “ Proof, sir, is a low, 
vulgar, levelling, rascally Jacobin — Belief is a loyal, generous, 
chivalrous gentleman ! No, no — prove what you please, you 

shall never rob me of one belief that has made me ” 

“ The finest-hearted creature that ever talked nonsense/’ said 
my hither, who came up, like Horace’s deity, at the right 
moment. “ What is it you must believe in, brother, no matter 
what the proof against you ? ” 

My uncle was silent, and with great energy dug the point of 
his cane into the gravel. 

“ He will not believe in our great ancestor the printer,” said 
I maliciously. 

My father’s calm brow was overcast in a moment. 

“ Brother,” said the Captain loftily, “ you have a right to your 
own ideas, but you should take care how they contaminate your 
child.” 

“ Contaminate ! ” said my father ; and for the first time I saw 
an angry sparkle flash from his eyes, but he checked himself on 
the instant : “ change the word, my dear brother.” 

“ No, sir, I will not change it ! To belie the records of the 
family ! ” 

“ Records ! A brass plate in a village church against all the 
books of the College of Arms ! ” 

“ To renounce your ancestor, a knight, who died in the field!” 
“ For the worst cause that man ever fought for ! ” 

“ On behalf of his king ! ” 

“ Who had murdered his nephews ! ” 

“ A knight ! with our crest on his helmet.” 

“ And no brains underneath it, or he would never have had 
them knocked out for so bloody a villain ! ” 

“ A rascally, drudging, money-making printer ! ” 

“The wise and glorious introducer of the art that has en- 
lightened a world. Prefer for an ancestor, to one whom scholar 
and sage never name but in homage, a worthless, obscure, jolter- 
headed booby in mail, whose only record to men is a brass plate 
in a church in a village ! ” 

My uncle turned round perfectly livid. “ Enough, sir ! enough! 
I am insulted sufficiently. I ought to have expected it. I wish 
you and your son a very good day.” 

My father stood aghast. The Captain was hobbling off to the 
iron gate ; in another moment he would have been out of our 
precincts. I ran up and hung upon him. “ Uncle, it is all my 
fault. Between you and me, I am quite of your side ; pray for- 


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63 


give us both. What could I have been thinking of, to vex you 
so ? And my father, whom your visit has made so happy ! ” 

My uncle paused, feeling for the latch of the gate. My father 
had now come up, and caught his hand. “ What are all the 
printers that ever lived, and all the books they ever printed, to 
one wrong to thy fine heart, brother Roland ? Shame on me ! A 
bookman’s weak point, you know ! It is very true — I should 
never have taught the boy one thing to give you pain, brother 
Roland ; — though I don’t remember,” continued my father, with 
a perplexed look, “that I ever did teach it him either! Pisistratus, 
as you value my blessing, respect as your ancestor Sir William de 
Caxton, the hero of Bosworth. Come, come, brother ! ” 

“ I am an old fool,” said Uncle Roland, “ whichever way we 
look at it. Ah, you young dog ! you are laughing at us both ! ” 
“ I have ordered breakfast on the lawn,” said my mother, 
coming out from the porch, with her cheerful smile on her lips ; 
“ and I think the devil will be done to your liking to-day, brother 
Roland.” 

“We have had enough of the devil already, my love,” said 
my father, wiping his forehead. 

So, while the birds sang overhead, or hopped familiarly across 
the sward for the crumbs thrown forth to them, while the sun 
was still cool in the east, and the leaves yet rustled with the 
sweet air of morning, we all sat down to our table, with hearts 
as reconciled to each other, and as peaceably disposed to thank 
God for the fair world around us, as if the river had never run 
red through the field of Bosworth, and the excellent Mr. Caxton 
had never set all mankind by the ears with an irritating invention, 
a thousand times more provocative of our combative tendencies 
than the blast of the trumpet and the gleam of the banner ! 


CHAPTER V 

T3R0THER,” said Mr. Caxton, “ I will walk with you to the 
Roman encampment.” 

The Captain felt that this proposal was meant as the greatest 
peace-offering my father could think of; for, 1st, it was a very 
long walk, and my father detested long walks ; 2ndly, it was the 
sacrifice of a whole day’s labour at the Great Work. And yet, 
with that quick sensibility which only the generous possess, 
Uncle Roland accepted at once the proposal. If he had not 


64 


THE CAXTONS : 


done so, my father would have had a heavier heart for a month 
to come. And how could the Great Work have got on while 
the author was every now and then disturbed by a twinge of 
remorse ? 

Half-an-hour after breakfast, the brothers set off arm-in-arm ; 
and I followed, a little apart, admiring how sturdily the old 
soldier got over the ground, in spite of the cork leg. It was 
pleasant enough to listen to their conversation, and notice the 
contrasts between these two eccentric stamps from Dame 
Nature’s ever-variable mould, — Nature who casts nothing in 
stereotype, for I do believe that not even two fleas can be found 
identically the same. 

My father was not a quick or minute observer of rural beauties. 
He had so little of the organ of locality, that I suspect he could 
have lost his way in his own garden. But the Captain was 
exquisitely alive to external impressions — not a feature in the 
landscape escaped him. At every fantastic gnarled pollard he 
halted to gaze ; his eye followed the lark soaring up from his 
feet ; when a fresher air came from the hill-top, his nostrils 
dilated, as if voluptuously to inhale its delight. My father, 
with all his learning, and though his study had been in the 
stores of all language, was very rarely eloquent. The Captain 
had a glow and a passion in his words which, what with 1 his 
deep, tremulous voice and animated gestures, gave something 
poetic to half of what he uttered. In every sentence of Roland’s, 
in every tone of his voice, and every play of his face, there was 
some outbreak of pride ; but, unless you sat him on his hobby of 
that great ancestor the printer, my father had not as much pride 
as a homceopathist could have put into a globule. He was not 
proud even of not being proud. Chafe all his feathers, and 
still you could rouse but a dove. My father was slow and 
mild, my uncle quick and fiery, ; my father reasoned, my uncle 
imagined ; my father was very seldom wrong, my uncle never 
quite in the right ; but, as my father once said of him, “ Roland 
beats about the bush till he sends out the very bird that we 
went to search for. He is never in the wrong without sug- 
gesting to us what is the right.” All in my uncle was stern, 
rough, and angular ; all in my father was sweet, polished, and 
rounded into a natural grace. My uncle’s character cast out 
a multiplicity of shadows, like a Gothic pile in a northern sky. 
My father stood serene in the light, like a Greek temple at 
mid-day in a southern clime. Their persons corresponded with 
their natures. My uncle’s high aquiline features, bronzed hue. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


65 


rapid fire of eye, and upper lip that always quivered, were a 
notable contrast to my father’s delicate profile, quiet, abstracted 
gaze, and the steady sweetness that rested on his musing smile. 
Roland’s forehead was singularly high, and rose to a peak in 
the summit where phrenologists place the organ of veneration, 
but it *was narrow and deeply furrowed. Augustine’s might be 
as high, but then soft, silky hair waved carelessly over it — con- 
cealing its height, but not its vast breadth — on which not a 
wrinkle was visible. And yet, withal, there was a great family 
likeness between the two brothers. When some softer senti- 
ment subdued him, Roland caught the very look of Augustine ; 
when some high emotion animated my father, you might have 
taken him for Roland. I have often thought since, in the 
greater experience of mankind which life has afforded me, that 
if, in early years, their destinies had been exchanged — if Roland 
had taken to literature, and my father had been forced into 
action — that each would have had greater worldly success. 
For Roland’s passion and energy would have given immediate 
and forcible effect to study ; he might have been a historian 
or a poet. It is not study alone that produces a writer ; it is 
intensity. In the mind, as in yonder chimney, to make the fire 
burn hot and quick, you must narrow the draught. Whereas, 
had my father been forced into the practical world, his calm 
depth of comprehension, his clearness of reason, his general 
accuracy in such notions as he once entertained and pondered 
over, joined to a temper that crosses and losses could never 
ruffle, and utter freedom from vanity and self-love, from pre- 
judice and passion, might have made him a very wise and en- 
lightened counsellor in the great affairs of life — a lawyer, a 
diplomatist, a statesman, for what I know, even a great general 
— if his tender humanity had not stood in the way of his military 
mathematics. 

But, as it was — with his slow pulse never stimulated by 
action, and too little stirred by even scholarly ambition — my 
father’s mind went on widening and widening, till the circle 
was lost in the great ocean of contemplation ; and Roland’s 
passionate energy, fretted into fever by every let and hindrance, 
in the struggle with his kind — and narrowed more and more 
as it was curbed within the channels of active discipline and 
duty — missed its due career altogether ; and what might have 
been the poet, contracted into the humourist. 

Yet, who that had ever known ye, could have wished you 
other than ye were — ye guileless, affectionate, honest, simple 

E 


66 


THE CAXTONS: 


creatures ? simple both, in spite of all the learning of the one, 
all the prejudices, whims, irritabilities, and crotchets of the 
other ? There you are, seated on the height of the old Roman 
camp, with a volume of the Stratagems of Polycenus (or is it 
Frontinus ?) open on my father’s lap ; the sheep grazing in the 
furrows of the circumvallations ; the curious steer gazing at 
you where it halts in the space whence the Roman cohorts 
glittered forth. And your boy-biographer standing behind 
you with folded arms ; and — as the scholar read or the soldier 
pointed his cane to each fancied post in the war — filling up 
the pastoral landscape with the eagles of Agricola and the 
scythed cars of Boadicea ! 


CHAPTER VI 

TT is never the same two hours together in this country/’ said 
my Uncle Roland, as, after dinner, or rather after dessert, we 
joined my mother in the drawing-room. 

Indeed, a cold drizzling rain had come on within the last two 
hours ; and, though it was July, it was as chilly as if it had 
been October. My mother whispered to me, and I went out ; 
in ten minutes more, the logs (for we live in a wood country) 
blazed merrily in the grate. Why could not my mother have 
rung the bell, and ordered the servant to light a fire ? My dear 
reader. Captain Roland was poor, and he made a capital virtue 
of economy ! 

The two brothers drew their chairs near to the hearth, my 
father at the left, my uncle at the right ; and I and my mother 
sat down to “ Fox and geese.” 

Coffee came in — one cup for the Captain, for the rest of the 
party avoided that exciting beverage. And on that cup was a 
picture of — His Grace the Duke of Wellington ! 

During our visit to the Roman camp, my mother had borrowed 
Mr. Squills’ chaise, and driven over to our market-town, for the 
express purpose of greeting the Captain’s eyes with the face of 
his old chief. 

My uncle changed colour, rose, lifted my mother’s hand to 
his lips, and sat himself down again in silence. 

“ I have heard,” said the Captain after a pause, “ that the 
Marquis of Hastings, who is every inch a soldier and a gentle- 
man — and that is saying not a little, for he measures seventy-five 



^y^en she cuas u^armjr?^ my heot ' 





A FAMILY PICTURE 


67 


inches from the crown to the sole — when he received Louis 
XVIII. (then an exile) at Donnington, fitted up his apartments 
exactly like those his Majesty had occupied at the Tuileries. 
It was a kingly attention (my Lord Hastings, you know, is 
sprung from the Plantagenets), a kingly attention to a king. It 
cost some money and made some noise. A woman can show 
the same royal delicacy of heart in this bit of porcelain, and 
so quietly, that we men all think it a matter of course, brother 
Austin.” 

“You are such a worshipper of women, Roland, that it is 
melancholy to see you single. You must marry again ! ” 

My uncle first smiled, then frowned, and lastly sighed some- 
what heavily. 

“ Your time will pass slowly in your old tower, poor brother,” 
continued my father, “ with only your little girl for a com- 
panion.” 

“And the past!” said my uncle; “the past, that mighty 
world ” 

“ Do you still read your old books of chivalry, Froissart and 
the Chronicles, Palmerin of England, and Amadis of Gaul ? ” 

“ Why,” said my uncle, reddening, “ I have tried to improve 
myself with studies a little more substantial. And ” (he added 
with a sly smile) “there will be your great book for many a 
long winter to come.” 

“ Um ! ” said my father bashfully. 

“Do you know,” quoth my uncle, “that Dame Primmins is 
a very intelligent woman ; full of fancy, and a capital story- 
teller ? ” 

“ Is not she, uncle ? ” cried I, leaving my fox in the corner. 
“ Oh, if you could hear her tell the tale of King Arthur and the 
Enchanted Lake, or the Grim White Woman !” 

“ I have already heard her tell both,” said my uncle. 

“ The deuce you have, brother ! My dear, we must look to 
this. These captains are dangerous gentlemen in an orderly 
household. Pray, where could you have had the opportunity of 
such private communications with Mrs. Primmins ? 

“ Once,” said my uncle readily, “ when I went into her room, 
while she mended my stock ; and once ” — he stopped short, and 
looked down. 

“ Once when ? — out with it.” 

“ When she was w'arming my bed,” said my uncle, in a half- 
whisper. 

“ Dear ! ” said my mother innocently, “ that’s how the sheets 


68 


THE CAXTONS: 


came by that bad hole in the middle. I thought it was the 
warming-pan.” 

“ I am quite shocked ! ” faltered my uncle. 

“You well may be,” said my father. “A woman who has 
been heretofore above all suspicion ! But come,” he said, seeing 
that my uncle looked sad, and was no doubt casting up the 
probable price of twice six yards of Holland — “ but come, you 
were always a famous rhapsodist or tale-teller yourself. Come, 
Roland, let us have some story of your own ; something which 
your experience has left strong in your impressions.” 

“ Let us first have the candles,” said my mother. 

The candles were brought, the curtains let down — we all drew 
our chairs to the hearth. But, in the interval, my uncle had sunk 
into a gloomy reverie ; and when we called upon him to begin, 
he seemed to shake off with effort some recollections of pain. 

“You ask me,” he said, “to tell you some tale which my own 
experience has left deeply marked in my impressions — I will tell 
you one apart from my own life, but which has often haunted 
me. It is sad and strange, ma’am.” 

“ Ma’am, brother ? ” said my mother reproachfully, letting her 
small hand drop upon that which, large and sunburnt, the 
Captain waved towards her as he spoke. 

“ Austin, you have married an angel ! ” said my uncle ; and 
he was, I believe, the only brother-in-law who ever made so 
hazardous an assertion. 


CHAPTER VII 
my uncle Roland’s tale 

TT was in Spain, no matter where or how, that it was my fortune 
to take prisoner a French officer of the same rank that I then 
held — a lieutenant; and there was so much similarity in our 
sentiments, that we became intimate friends — the most intimate 
friend I ever had, sister, out of this dear circle. He was a rough 
soldier, whom the world had not well treated ; but he never 
railed at the world, and maintained that he had had his deserts. 
Honour was his idol, and the sense of honour paid him for the 
loss of all else. 

“ We were both at that time volunteers in a foreign service — 
in that worst of service, civil war, — he on one side, I on the 


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69 


other, — both, perhaps, disappointed in the cause we had severally 
espoused. There was something similar, too, in our domestic 
relationships. He had a son — a boy — who was all in life to him, 
next to his country and his duty. I, too, had then such a son, 
though of fewer years.” (The Captain paused an instant ; we 
exchanged glances, and a stifling sensation of pain and suspense 
was felt by all his listeners.) “We were accustomed, brother, 
to talk of these children — to picture their future, to compare 
our hopes and dreams. We hoped and dreamed alike. A short 
time sufficed to establish this confidence. My prisoner was sent 
to headquarters, and soon afterwards exchanged. 

“We met no more till last year. Being then at Paris, I in- 
quired for my old friend, and learned that he was living at R , 

a few miles from the capital. I went to visit him. I found his 
house empty and deserted. That very day he had been led to 
prison, charged w ith a terrible crime. I saw him in that prison, 
and from his own lips learned his story. His son had been 
brought up, as he fondly believed, in the habits and principles of 
honourable men ; and, having finished his education, came to 

reside with him at R . The young man was accustomed 

to go frequently to Paris. A young Frenchman loves pleasure, 
sister ; and pleasure is found at Paris. The father thought it 
natural, and stripped his age of some comforts to supply luxuries 
for the son’s youth. 

“Shortly after the young man’s arrival, my friend perceived 
that he was robbed. Moneys kept in his bureau were abstracted 
he knew not how, nor could guess by whom. It must be done 
in the night. He concealed himself, and watched. He saw a 
stealthy figure glide in, he saw a false key applied to the lock — 
he started forward, seized the felon, and recognised his son. 
What should the father have done ? I do not ask you , sister ! 
I ask these men, son and father, I ask you.” 

“Expelled him the house,” cried I. 

“ Done his duty, and reformed the unhappy wretch,” said my 
father. “ Nemo repente turpissimus semper fuit — No man is wholly 
bad all at once.” 

“ The father did as you would have advised, brother. He kept 
the youth ; he remonstrated with him ; he did more — he gave 
him the key of the bureau. f Take what I have to give,’ said 
he : f I would rather be a beggar than know my son a thief.’ ” 

“ Right ; and the youth repented, and became a good man ?” 
exclaimed my father. 

Captain Roland shook his head. 


“ The youth promised 


70 


THE CAXTONS: 


amendment, and seemed penitent. He spoke of the tempta- 
tions of Paris, the gaming-table, and what not. He gave up his 
daily visits to the capital. He seemed to apply to study. 
Shortly after this, the neighbourhood was alarmed by reports of 
night robberies on the road. Men, masked and armed, plundered 
travellers, and even broke into houses. 

“ The police were on the alert. One night an old brother 
officer knocked at my friend’s door. It was late : the veteran 
(he was a cripple, by the way, like myself — strange coincidence !) 
was in bed. He came down in haste, when his servant woke 
and told him that his old friend, wounded and bleeding, sought 
an asylum under his roof. The wound, however, was slight. 
The guest had been attacked and robbed on the road. The 
next morning the proper authority of the town was sent for. 
The plundered man described his loss — some billets of five 
hundred francs in a pocket-book, on which was embroidered his 
name and coronet (he was a vicomte). The guest stayed to 
dinner. Late in the forenoon, the son looked in. The guest 
started to see him : my friend noticed his paleness. Shortly 
after, on pretence of faintness, the guest retired to his room, 
and sent for his host. ‘ My friend,’ said he, ‘ can you do me a 
favour? — go to the magistrate and recall the evidence I have 
given.’ 

“ ‘ Impossible/ said the host. ‘ What crotchet is this ? ’ 

“ The guest shuddered. ‘ Peste ! ’ said he, ‘ I do not wish in 
my old age to be hard on others. Who knows how the robber 
may have been tempted, and who knows what relations he may 
have — honest men, whom his crime would degrade for ever ! 
Good heavens ! if detected, it is the galleys, the galleys ! ’ 

“ ‘ And what then ? — the robber knew what he braved.’ 

“ ‘ But did his father know it ? ’ cried the guest. 

“ A light broke upon my unhappy comrade in arms : he 
caught his friend by the hand — ‘You turned pale at my son’s 
sight — where did you ever see him before ? Speak ! ’ 

“ ‘ Last night on the road to Paris. The mask slipped aside. 
Call back my evidence ! ’ 

“‘You are mistaken,’ said my friend calmly. ‘ I saw my son 
in his bed, and blessed him, before I went to my own.’ 

“ ‘ I will believe you,’ said the guest ; ‘ and never shall my 
hasty suspicion pass my lips — but call back the evidence.’ 

“ The guest returned to Paris before dusk. The father con- 
versed with his son on the subject of his studies ; he followed 
him to his room, waited till he was in bed, and was then about 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


71 


to retire, when the youth said , e Father, you have forgotten your 
blessing.’ 

“ The father went back, laid his hand on the boy’s head and 
prayed. He was credulous — fathers are so ! He was persuaded 
that his friend had been deceived. He retired to rest, and fell 
asleep. He woke suddenly in the middle of the night, and felt 
(I here quote his words) — f I felt,’ said he, ‘ as if a voice had 
awakened me — a voice that said “ Rise and search.” I rose at 
once, struck a light, and went to my son’s room. The door was 
locked. I knocked once, twice, thrice, — no answer. I dared 
not call aloud, lest I should rouse the servants. I went down 
the stairs — I opened the back-door — I passed to the stables. 
My own horse was there, not my son’s. My horse neighed ; it 
was old, like myself — my old charger at Mount St. Jean. I 
stole back, I crept into the shadow of the wall by my son’s door, 
and extinguished my light. I felt as if I were a thief myself.’ ” 

“ Brother,” interrupted my mother under her breath, “ speak 
in your own words, not in this wretched father’s. I know not 
why, but it would shock me less.” 

The Captain nodded. 

“ Before daybreak my friend heard the back-door open 
gently ; a foot ascended the stair — a key grated in the door of 
the room close at hand — the father glided through the dark 
into that chamber behind his unseen son. 

“ He heard the clink of the tinder-box ; a light was struck ; 
it spread over the room, but he had time to place himself be- 
hind the window-curtain which was close at hand. The figure 
before him stood a moment or so motionless, and seemed to 
listen, for it turned to the right, to the left, its visage covered 
with the black hideous mask which is worn in carnivals. 
Slowly the mask was removed ; could that be his son’s face ? 
the son of a brave man ? — it was pale and ghastly with scoundrel 
fears ; the base drops stood on the brow ; the eye was haggard 
and bloodshot. He looked as a coward looks when death stands 
before him. 

“The youth walked, or rather skulked, to the secretaire, un- 
locked it, opened a secret drawer ; placed within it the contents 
of his pockets and his frightful mask : the father approached 
softly, looked over his shoulder, and saw in the drawer the 
pocket-book embroidered with his friend’s name. Meanwhile, 
the son took out his pistols, uncocked them cautiously, and was 
about also to secrete them, when his father arrested his arm. 
f Robber, the use of these is yet to come ! ’ 


72 


THE CAXTONS : 


“ The son’s knees knocked together, an exclamation for 
mercy burst from his lips ; but when, recovering the mere shock 
of his dastard nerves, he perceived it was not the gripe of some 
hireling of the law, but a father’s hand that had clutched his 
arm, the vile audacity which knows fear only from a bodily 
cause, none from the awe of shame, returned to him. 

“'Tush, sir,’ he said, 'waste not time in reproaches, for, I 
fear, the gens-d’ armes are on my track. It is well that you are 
here ; you can swear that I have spent the night at home. 
Unhand me, old man — I have these witnesses still to secrete,’ 
and he pointed to the garments wet and bedabbled with the 
mud of the roads. He had scarcely spoken when the walls 
shook ; there was the heavy clatter of hoofs on the ringing 
pavement without. 

'' ' They come ! ’ cried the son. ' Off, dotard ! save your son 
from the galleys.’ 

" ' The galleys, the galleys ! ’ said the father, staggering back ; 
' it is true ’ — he said — ' the galleys.’ 

“ There was a loud knocking at the gate. The gens-d’ armes 
surrounded the house. 'Open in the name of the law.’ No 
answer came, no door was opened. Some of the gens-d’ armes 
rode to the rear of the house, in which was placed the stable- 
yard. From the window of the son’s room the father saw the 
sudden blaze of torches, the shadowy forms of the men-hunters. 
He heard the clatter of arms as they swung themselves from 
their horses. He heard a voice cry, 'Yes, this is the robber's 
grey horse — see, it still reeks with sweat ! ’ And behind and in 
front, at either door, again came the knocking, and again the 
shout, ' Open in the name of the law.’ 

“ Then lights began to gleam from the casements of the neigh- 
bouring houses ; then the space filled rapidly with curious won- 
derers startled from their sleep ; the world was astir, and the 
crowd came round to know what crime or what shame had entered 
the old soldier’s home. 

“ Suddenly, within, there was heard the report of a firearm ; 
and a minute or so afterwards the front door was opened, and the 
soldier appeared. 

“ ' Enter,’ he said to the gens-d’ armes : ' what would you ? ’ 

“ ' We seek a robber who is within your walls.’ 

“ ' I know it ; mount and find him : I will lead the way.’ 

“ He ascended the stairs ; he threw open his son’s room ; the 
officers of justice poured in, and on the floor lay the robber’s 
corpse. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


73 


“ They looked at each other in amazement. c Take what is 
left you/ said the father. ‘ Take the dead man rescued from the 
galleys; take the living man on whose hands rests the dead man’s 
blood ! ’ 

“ I was present at my friend’s trial. The facts had become 
known beforehand. He stood there with his grey hair, and his 
mutilated limbs, and the deep scar on his visage, and the cross of 
the Legion of Honour on his breast ; and when he had told his 
tale, he ended with these words — ‘ I have saved the son whom I 
reared for France from a doom that would have spared the life 
to brand it with disgrace. Is this a crime ? I give you my life 
in exchange for my son’s disgrace. Does my country need a 
victim ? I have lived for my country’s glory, and I can die con- 
tented to satisfy its laws ; sure that, if you blame me, you will 
not despise ; sure that the hands that give me to the headsman 
will scatter flowers over my grave. Thus I confess all. I, a 
soldier, look round amongst a nation of soldiers ; and in the name 
of the star which glitters on my breast, I dare the Fathers of 
France to condemn me ! ’ 

“They acquitted the soldier — at least they gave a verdict 
answering to what in our courts is called e justifiable homicide.’ 
A shout rose in the court which no ceremonial voice could still ; 
the crowd would have borne him in triumph to his house, but 
his look repelled such vanities. To his house he returned in- 
deed, and the day afterwards they found him dead, beside the 
cradle in which his first prayer had been breathed over his sinless 
child. Now, father and son, I ask you, do you condemn that 
man ? ” 


CHAPTER VIII 


father took three strides up and down the room, and then. 



halting on his hearth, and facing his brother, he thus spoke 
— “ I condemn his deed, Roland ! At best he was but a haughty 
egotist. I understand why Brutus should slay his sons. By 
that sacrifice he saved his country ! What did this poor dupe 
of an exaggeration save ? — nothing but his own name. He 
could not lift the crime from his son’s soul, nor the dishonour 
from his son’s memory. He could but gratify his own vain 
pride ; and, insensibly to himself, his act was whispered to him 
by the fiend that ever whispers to the heart of man, f Dread 
men’s opinions more than God’s law ! ’ Oh, my dear brother, 


74 


THE CAXTONS 


what minds like yours should guard against the most is not the 
meanness of evil — it is the evil that takes false nobility, by garb- 
ing itself in the royal magnificence of good.” My uncle walked 
to the window, opened it, looked out a moment, as if to draw in 
fresh air, closed it gently, and came back again to his seat ; but 
during the short time the window had been left open, a moth 
flew in. 

“ Tales like these,” renewed my father pityingly — “whether 
told by some great tragedian, or in thy simple style, my brother, 
— tales like these have their uses : they penetrate the heart 
to make it wiser ; but all wisdom is meek, my Roland. They 
invite us to put the question to ourselves that thou hast asked 
— f Can we condemn this man ? ' and reason answers, as I have 

answered — f We pity the man, we condemn the deed.’ We 

take care, my love ! that moth will be in the candle. We 

rvhish ! — whisk ! ” — and my father stopped to drive away the 
moth. My uncle turned, and taking his handkerchief from the 
lower part of his face, of which he had wished to conceal the 
workings, he flapped away the moth from the flame. My mother 
moved the candles from the moth. I tried to catch the moth 
in my father’s straw-hat. The deuce was in the moth ! it baffled 
us all, now circling against the ceiling, now sweeping down at 
the fatal lights. As if by a simultaneous impulse, my father 
approached one candle, my uncle approached the other ; and 
just as the moth was wheeling round and round, irresolute 
which to choose for its funeral pyre, both candles were put 
out. The fire had burned down low in the grate, and in the 
sudden dimness my father’s soft sweet voice came forth, as 
if from an invisible being: “We leave ourselves in the dark 
to save a moth from the flame, brother ! shall we do less for our 
fellow-men ? Extinguish, oh ! humanely extinguish the light 
of our reason, when the darkness more favours our mercy.” 
Before the lights were relit my uncle had left the room. His 
brother followed him ; my mother and I drew near to each 
other and talked in whispers. 


PART IV 


CHAPTER I 

r WAS always an early riser. Happy the man who is ! Every 
morning, day comes to him with a virgin’s love, full of bloom, 
and purity, and freshness. The youth of Nature is contagious, 
like the gladness of a happy child. I doubt if any man can 
be called “ old ” so long as he is an early riser, and an early 
walker. And oh, Youth ! — take my word of it — youth in dress- 
ing-gown and slippers, dawdling over breakfast at noon, is a 
very decrepit ghastly image of that youth which sees the sun 
blush over the mountains, and the dews sparkle upon blossoming 
* hedgerows. 

Passing by my father’s study, I was surprised to see the 
windows unclosed — surprised more, on looking in, to see him 
bending over his books — for I had never before known him 
study till after the morning meal. Students are not usually early 
risers, for students, alas ! whatever their age, are rarely young. 
Yes ; the Great Book must be getting on in serious earnest. 
It was no longer dalliance with learning : this was work. 

I passed through the gates into the road. A few of the 

cottages were giving signs of returning life ; but it was not 

yet the hour for labour, and no “Good morning, sir,” greeted 
me on the road. Suddenly, at a turn, which an overhanging 
beech- tree had before concealed, I came full upon my Uncle 
Roland. 

“ What ! you, sir ? So early ? Hark, the clock is striking 
five ! ” 

“ Not later ! I have walked well for a lame man. It must 

be more than four miles to and back.” 

“You have been to : not on business ? No soul would 

be up.” 

“Yes, at inns there is always some one up. Ostlers never 
sleep ! I have been to order my humble chaise and pair. I 
leave you to-day, nephew.” 


75 


76 


THE CAXTONS : 


“ Ah, uncle, we have offended you. It was my folly, that 
cursed print ” 

“ Pooh ! ” said my uncle quickly. “ Offended me, boy ! I 
defy you ! ” and he pressed my hand roughly. 

“Yet this sudden determination! It was but yesterday, at 
the Roman camp, that you planned an excursion with my father 
to C Castle.” 

“ Never depend upon a whimsical man. I must be in London 
to-night.” 

“ And return to-morrow ? ” 

“ I know not when,” said my uncle gloomily ; and he was 
silent for some moments. At length, leaning less lightly on my 
arm, he continued — “ Young man, you have pleased me. I love 
that open, saucy brow of yours, on which Nature has written 
f Trust me/ 1 love those clear eyes, that look one manfully in 
the face. I must know more of you — much of you. You must 
come and see me some day or other in your ancestors ruined 
keep.” 

“ Come ! that I will. And you shall show me the old 
tower ” 

“ And the traces of the outworks ! ” cried my uncle, flourish- 
ing his stick. 

“ And the pedigree ” 

“Ay, and your great-great-grandfather’s armour, which he 
wore at Marston Moor ” 

“Yes, and the brass plate in the church, uncle.” 

“ The deuce is in the boy ! Come here, come here ; I’ve 
three minds to break your head, sir ! ” 

“ It is a pity somebody had not broken the rascally printer’s, 
before he had the impudence to disgrace us by having a family, 
uncle.” 

Captain Roland tried hard to frown, but he could not. 
“ Pshaw ! ” said he, stopping, and taking snuff. “ The world of 
the dead is wide ; why should the ghosts jostle us ? ” 

“We can never escape the ghosts, uncle. They haunt us 
always. We cannot think or act, but the soul of some man, 
who has lived before, points the way. The dead never die, 
especially since ” 

“Since what, boy? — you speak well.” 

“ Since our great ancestor introduced printing,” said I 
majestically. 

My uncle whistled “ Malbrouk s' en va-t-en guerre .” 

I had not the heart to plague him further. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 7? 

“ Peace !” said I, creeping cautiously within the circle of the 
stick. 

“ No ! I forewarn you ” 

“ Peace ! and describe to me my little cousin, your pretty 
daughter — for pretty I am sure she is.” 

“ Peace,” said my uncle, smiling. “ But you must come and 
judge for yourself.” 


CHAPTER II 

TTNCLE ROLAND was gone. Before he went he was closeted 
for an hour with my father, who then accompanied him to 
the gate ; and we all crowded round him as he stepped into his 
chaise. When the Captain was gone, I tried to sound my father 
as to the cause of so sudden a departure. But my father 
was impenetrable in all that related to his brother’s secrets. 
Whether or not the Captain had ever confided to him the cause 
of his displeasure with his son — a mystery which much haunted 
me — my father was mute on that score, both to my mother and 
myself. For two or three days, however, Mr. Caxton was evi- 
dently unsettled. He did not even take to his Great Work, 
but walked much alone, or accompanied only by the duck, and 
without even a book in his hand. But by degrees the scholarly 
habits returned to him ; my mother mended his pens, and the 
work went on. 

For my part, left much to myself, especially in the mornings, 
I began to muse restlessly over the future. Ungrateful that I 
was, the happiness of home ceased to content me. I heard 
afar the roar of the great world, and roved impatient by the 
shore. 

At length, one evening, my father, with some modest hums 
and ha’s, and an unaffected blush on his fair forehead, gratified 
a prayer frequently urged on him, and read me some portions 
of the Great Work. I cannot express the feelings this lecture 
created — they were something akin to awe. For the design of 
this book was so immense — and towards its execution a learning 
so vast and various had administered — that it seemed to me as 
if a spirit had opened to me a new world, which had always 
been before my feet, but which my own human blindness had 
hitherto concealed from me. The unspeakable patience with 
which all these materials had been collected, year after year 
—the ease with which now, by the calm power of genius, they 


78 


THE CAXTONS : 


seemed of themselves to fall into harmony and system — the 
unconscious humility with which the scholar exposed the stores 
of a laborious life ; — all combined to rebuke my own restlessness 
and ambition, while they filled me with a pride in my father, 
which saved my wounded egotism from a pang. Here, indeed, 
was one of those books which embrace an existence ; like the 
Dictionary of Bayle, or the History of Gibbon, or the Fasti 
Hellenici of Clinton, it was a book to which thousands of books 
had contributed, only to make the originality of the single mind 
more bold and clear. Into the furnace all vessels of gold, of all 
ages, had been cast ; but from the mould came the new coin, 
with its single stamp. And, happily, the subject of the work 
did not forbid to the writer the indulgence of his naive, peculiar 
irony of humour — so quiet, yet so profound. My father's book 
was the ff History of Human Error.” It was, therefore, the 
moral history of mankind, told with truth and earnestness, yet 
with an arch, unmalignant smile. Sometimes, indeed, the smile 
drew tears. But in all true humour lies its germ, pathos. Oh ! 
by the goddess Moria or Folly, but he was at home in his 
theme ! He viewed man first in the savage state, preferring in 
this the positive accounts of voyagers and travellers to the 
vague myths of antiquity, and the dreams of speculators on our 
pristine state. From Australia and Abyssinia he drew pictures 
of mortality unadorned, as lively as if he had lived amongst 
Bushmen and savages all his life. Then he crossed over the 
Atlantic, and brought before you the American Indian, with his 
noble nature, struggling into the dawn of civilisation, when 
friend Penn cheated him out of his birthright, and the Anglo- 
Saxon drove him back into darkness. He showed both analogy 
and contrast between this specimen of our kind, and others 
equally apart from the extremes of the savage state and the 
cultured. The Arab in his tent, the Teuton in his forests, the 
Greenlander in his boat, the Fin in his reindeer car. Up sprang 
the rude gods of the north, and the resuscitated Druidism, passing 
from its earliest templeless belief into the later corruptions of 
crommell and idol. Up sprang, by their side, the Saturn of the 
Phoenicians, the mystic Budh of India, the elementary deities 
of the Pelasgian, the Naith and Serapis of Egypt, the Ormuzd 
of Persia, the Bel of Babylon, the winged genii of the graceful 
Etruria. How nature and life shaped the religion ; how the 
religion shaped the manners; how, and by what influences, 
some tribes were formed for progress ; how others were destined 
to remain stationary, or be swallowed up in war and slavery by 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


79 


their brethren, was told with a precision clear and strong as the 
voice of Fate. Not only an antiquarian and philologist, but an 
anatomist and philosopher — my father brought to bear on all 
these grave points the various speculations involved in the dis- 
tinction of races. He showed how race in perfection is pro- 
duced, up to a certain point, by admixture ; how all mixed races 
have been the most intelligent — how, in proportion as local 
circumstance and religious faith permitted the early fusion of 
different tribes, races improved and quickened into the refine- 
ments of civilisation. He tracked the progress and dispersion 
of the Hellenes, from their mythical cradle in Thessaly ; and 
showed how those who settled near the sea-shores, and were 
compelled into commerce and intercourse with strangers, gave 
to Greece her marvellous accomplishments in arts and letters — 
the flowers of the ancient world. How others, like the Spartans, 
dwelling evermore in a camp, on guard against their neighbours, 
and rigidly preserving their Dorian purity of extraction, contri- 
buted neither artists, nor poets, nor philosophers to the golden 
treasure-house of mind. He took the old race of the Celts, 
Cimry, or Cimmerians. He compared the Celt who, as in Wales, 
the Scotch Highlands, in Bretagne, and in uncomprehended 
Ireland, retains his old characteristics and purity of breed, with 
the Celt, whose blood, mixed by a thousand channels, dictates 
from Paris the manners and revolutions of the world. He 
compared the Norman, in his ancient Scandinavian home, with 
that wonder of intelligence and chivalry into which he grew, 
fused imperceptibly with the Frank, the Goth, and the Anglo- 
Saxon. He compared the Saxon, stationary in the land of 
Horsa, with the colonist and civiliser of the globe, as he 
becomes, when he knows not through what channels — French, 
Flemish, Danish, Welsh, Scotch, and Irish — he draws his 
sanguine blood. And out from all these speculations, to which 
I do such hurried and scanty justice, he drew the blessed truth, 
that carries hope to the land of the Caffre, the hut of the 
Bushman — that there is nothing in the flattened skull and the 
ebon aspect that rejects God’s law — improvement ; that by the 
same principle which raises the dog, the lowest of the animals 
in its savage state, to the highest after man — -viz., admixture of 
race — you can elevate into nations of majesty and power the 
outcasts of humanity, now your compassion or your scorn. But 
when my father got into the marrow of his theme — when, 
quitting these preliminary discussions, he fell pounce amongst 
the would-be wisdom of the wise : when he dealt with civilisa- 


80 


THE CAXTONS: 


tion itself, its schools, and porticoes, and academies ; when he 
bared the absurdities couched beneath the colleges of the 
Egyptians, and the Symposia of the Greeks ; when he showed 
that, even in their own favourite pursuit of metaphysics, the 
Greeks were children ; and in their own more practical region 
of politics, the Romans were visionaries and bunglers ; — when, 
following the stream of error through the Middle Ages, he 
quoted the puerilities of Agrippa, the crudities of Cardan, and 
passed, with his calm smile, into the salons of the chattering 
wits of Paris in the eighteenth century, oh! then his irony was 
that of Lucian, sweetened by the gentle spirit of Erasmus. 
For not even here was my father’s satire of the cheerless and 
Mephistophelian school. From this record of error he drew 
forth the grand eras of truth. He showed how earnest men 
never think in vain, though their thoughts may be errors. He 
proved how, in vast cycles, age after age, the human mind 
marches on — like the ocean, receding here, but there advanc- 
ing : how from the speculations of the Greeks sprang all true 
philosophy ; how from the institutions of the Roman rose all 
durable systems of government ; how from the robust follies of 
the north came the glory of chivalry, and the modern delicacies 
of honour, and the sweet, harmonising influences of woman. 
He tracked the ancestry of our Sidneys and Bayards from the 
Hengists, Genserics, and Attilas. Full of all curious and quaint 
anecdote — of original illustration — of those niceties of learning 
which spring from a taste cultivated to the last exquisite polish 
— the book amused, and allured, and charmed ; and erudition 
lost its pedantry now in the simplicity of Montaigne, now in 
the penetration of La Bruyere. He lived in each time of 
which he wrote, and the time lived again in him. Ah ! what 
a writer of romances he would have been, if — if what ? If 
he had had as sad an experience of men’s passions, as he 
had the happy intuition into their humours. But he who 
would see the mirror of the shore, must look where it is cast 
on the river, not the ocean. The narrow stream reflects the 
gnarled tree, and the pausing herd, and the village spire, and 
the romance of the landscape ; but the sea reflects only the 
vast outline of the headland, and the lights of the eternal 
heaven. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


81 


CHAPTER III 

JT is Lombard Street to a China orange,” quoth Uncle Jack. 

“ Are the odds in favour of fame against failure so great ? 
You do not speak, I fear, from experience, brother Jack,” 
answered my father, as he stooped down to tickle the duck 
under the left ear. 

" But Jack Tibbets is not Augustine Caxton. Jack Tibbets 
is not a scholar, a genius, a wond ” 

" Stop ! ” cried my father. 

" After all,” said Mr. Squills, " though I am no flatterer, Mr. 
Tibbets is not so far out. That part of your book which com- 
pares the crania or skulls of the different races is superb. 
Lawrence or Dr. Prichard could not have done the thing more 
neatly. Such a book must not be lost to the world ; and I 
agree with Mr. Tibbets that you should publish as soon as 
possible.” 

" It is one thing to write and another to publish,” said my 
father irresolutely. "When one considers all the great men 
who have published ; when one thinks one is going to intrude 
one’s self audaciously into the company of Aristotle and Bacon, 
of Locke, of Herder — of all the grave philosophers who bend 
over Nature with brows weighty with thought — one may well 
pause, and ” 

" Pooh ! ” interrupted Uncle Jack ; "science is not a club, it 
is an ocean ; it is open to the cockboat as the frigate. One 
man carries across it a freightage of ingots, another may fish 
there for herrings. Who can exhaust the sea ? who say to 
intellect, f The deeps of philosophy are preoccupied ’ ? ” 

" Admirable ! ” cried Squills. 

" So it is really your advice, my friends,” said my father, who 
seemed struck by Uncle Jack’s eloquent illustrations, " that I 
should desert my household gods, remove to London, since 
my own library ceases to supply my wants ; take lodgings near 
the British Museum, and finish off one volume, at least, in- 
continently.” 

" It is a duty you owe to your country,” said Uncle Jack 
solemnly. 

" And to yourself,” urged Squills. " One must attend to the 
natural evacuations of the brain. Ah ! you may smile, sir ; but 
I have observed that if a man has much in his head, he must 


82 


THE CAXTONS : 


give it vent or it oppresses him ; the whole system goes wrong. 
From being abstracted, he grows stupefied. The weight of the 
pressure affects the nerves. I would not even guarantee you 
from a stroke of paralysis.” 

“ O Austin ! ” cried my mother tenderly, and throwing her 
arms round my father’s neck. 

“ Come, sir, you are conquered,” said I. 

“And what is to become of you, Sisty ! ” asked my father. 
“ Do you go with us, and unsettle your mind for the university ? ” 

“ My uncle has invited me to his castle ; and in the meanwhile 
I will stay here, fag hard, and take care of the duck.” 

“ All alone ? ” said my mother. 

“No. All alone ! Why, Uncle Jack will come here as often 
as ever, I hope.” 

Uncle Jack shook his head. 

“ No, my boy — I must go to town with your father. You 
don’t understand these things. I shall see the booksellers for 
him. I know how these gentlemen are to be dealt with. I 
shall prepare the literary circles for the appearance of the 
book. In short, it is a sacrifice of interest, 1 know. My Journal 
will suffer. But friendship and my country’s good before all 
things.” 

“ Dear Jack ! ” said my mother affectionately. 

“ I cannot suffer it,” cried my father. “ You are making a 
good income. You are doing well where you are; and as to 
seeing the booksellers — why, when the work is ready, you can 
come to town for a week, and settle that affair.” 

“ Poor dear Austin,” said Uncle Jack, with an air of superiority 
and compassion. “ A week ! sir, the advent of a book that is 
to succeed requires the preparation of months. Pshaw ! I am 
no genius, but I am a practical man. I know what’s what. 
Leave me alone.” 

But my father continued obstinate, and Uncle Jack at last 
ceased to urge the matter. The journey to fame and London 
was now settled ; but my father would not hear of my staying 
behind. 

No ; Pisistratus must needs go also to town and see the 
world ; the duck would take care of itself. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


83 


CHAPTER IV 

WE had taken the precaution to send, the day before, to secure 
our due complement of places — four in all (including one for 
Mrs. Primmins)— in, or upon, the fast family coach called the 
Sun, which had lately been set up for the special convenience of 
the neighbourhood. 

This luminary, rising in a town about seven miles distant 
from us, described at first a very erratic orbit amidst the con- 
tiguous villages, before it finally struck into the high-road of 
enlightenment, and thence performed its journey, in the full 
eyes of man, at the majestic pace of six miles and a half an 
hour. My father with his pockets full of books, and a quarto 
of “ Gebelin on the Primitive World,” for light reading under his 
arm ; my mother with a little basket, containing sandwiches, and 
biscuits of her own baking; Mrs. Primmins, with a new umbrella 
purchased for the occasion, and a bird-cage containing a canary, 
endeared to her not more by song than age, and a severe pip 
through which she had successfully nursed it — and I myself, 
waited at the gates to welcome the celestial visitor. The 
gardener, with a wheelbarrow full of boxes and portmanteaus, 
stood a little in the van ; and the footman, who was to follow 
when lodgings had been found, had gone to a rising eminence to 
watch the dawning of the expected Sun, and apprise us of its ap- 
proach by the concerted signal of a handkerchief fixed to a stick. 

The quaint old house looked at us mournfully from all its 
deserted windows. The litter before its threshold and in its 
open hall ; wisps of straw or hay that had been used for packing ; 
baskets and boxes that had been examined and rejected ; others, 
corded and piled, reserved to follow with the footman — and the 
two heated and hurried serving-women left behind standing 
half-way between house and garden-gate whispering to each 
other, and looking as if they had not slept for weeks — gave to 
a scene, usually so trim and orderly, an aspect of pathetic aban- 
donment and desolation. The Genius of the place seemed to 
reproach us. I felt the omens were against us, and turned my 
earnest gaze from the haunts behind with a sigh, as the coach 
now drew up with all its grandeur. An important personage, 
who, despite the heat of the day, was enveloped in a vast super- 
fluity of belcher, in the midst of which galloped a gilt fox, and 
who rejoiced in the name of “ guard,” descended to inform us 


84 


THE CAXTONS: 


politely that only three places, two inside and one out, were 
at our disposal, the rest having been pre-engaged a fortnight 
before our orders were received. 

Now, as I knew that Mrs. Primmins was indispensable to the 
comforts of my honoured parents (the more so, as she had once 
lived in London, and knew all its ways), I suggested that she 
should take the outside seat, and that I should perform the journey 
on foot — a primitive mode of transport, which has its charms 
to a young man with stout limbs and gay spirits. The guard’s 
outstretched arm left my mother little time to oppose this pro- 
position, to which my father assented with a silent squeeze of 
the hand. And, having promised to join them at a family 
hotel near the Strand, to which Mr. Squills had recommended 
them as peculiarly genteel and quiet, and waved my last fare- 
well to my poor mother, who continued to stretch her meek 
face out of the window till the coach was whirled off in a cloud 
like one of the Homeric heroes, I turned within, to put up a 
few necessary articles in a small knapsack, which 1 remembered to 
have seen in the lumber-room, and which had appertained to 
my maternal grandfather ; and with that on my shoulder, and a 
strong staff in my hand, I set off towards the great city at as 
brisk a pace as if I were only bound to the next village. 
Accordingly, about noon I was both tired and hungry ; and 
seeing by the wayside one of those pretty inns yet peculiar to 
England, but which, thanks to the railways, will soon be 
amongst the things before the Flood, I sat down at a table 
under some clipped limes, unbuckled my knapsack, and ordered 
my simple fare with the dignity of one who, for the first time 
in his life, bespeaks his own dinner, and pays for it out of his 
own pocket. 

While engaged on a rasher of bacon and a tankard of what 
the landlord called “ No mistake,” two pedestrians, passing 
the same road which I had traversed, paused, cast a simultaneous 
look at my occupation, and induced no doubt by its allurements, 
seated themselves under the same lime-trees, though at the 
farther end of the table. I surveyed the new-comers with the 
curiosity natural to my years. 

The elder of the two might have attained the age of thirty, 
though sundry deep lines, and hues formerly florid and now 
faded, speaking of fatigue, care, or dissipation, might have made 
him look somewhat older than he was. There was nothing very 
prepossessing in his appearance. He was dressed with a pretension 
ill suited to the costume appropriate to a foot- traveller. His 


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85 


coat was pinched and padded ; two enormous pins, connected 
by a chain, decorated a very stiff stock of blue satin, dotted 
with yellow stars ; his hands were cased in very dingy gloves, 
which had once been straw-coloured, and the said hands played 
with a whalebone cane surmounted by a formidable knob, which 
gave it the appearance of a " life-preserver.” As he took off a 
white napless hat, which he wiped with great care and affection 
with the sleeve of his right arm, a profusion of stiff curls in- 
stantly betrayed the art of man. Like my landlord’s ale, in 
that wig there was “ no mistake : ” it was brought (after the 
fashion of the wigs we see in the popular effigies of George IV. 
in his youth) low over his forehead and was raised at the top. 
The wig had been oiled, and the oil had imbibed no small 
quantity of dust ; oil and dust had alike left their impression 
on the forehead and cheeks of the wig’s proprietor. For the rest 
the expression of his face was somewhat impudent and reckless, 
but not without a certain drollery in the corners of his eyes. 

The younger man was apparently about my own age, a year 
or two older, perhaps — judging rather from his set and sinewy 
frame than his boyish countenance. And this last, boyish as it 
was, could not fail to command the attention even of the most 
careless observer. It had not only the darkness, but the character 
of the gipsy face, with large brilliant eyes, raven hair, long and 
wavy, but not curling ; the features were aquiline, but delicate, 
and when he spoke he showed teeth dazzling as pearls. It was 
impossible not to admire the singular beauty of the countenance ; 
and yet, it had that expression, at once stealthy and fierce, which 
war with society has stamped upon the lineaments of the race of 
which it reminded me. But, withal, there was somewhat of the 
air of a gentleman in this young wayfarer. His dress consisted 
of a black velveteen shooting-jacket, or rather short frock, with 
a broad leathern strap at the waist, loose white trousers, and a 
foraging cap, which he threw carelessly on the table as he wiped 
his brow. Turning round impatiently, and with some haughti- 
ness, from his companion, he surveyed me with a quick, observant 
flash of his piercing eyes, and then stretched himself at length on 
the bench, and appeared either to doze or muse, till, in obedience 
to his companion’s orders, the board was spread with all the cold 
meats the larder could supply. 

“ Beef ! ” said his companion, screwing a pinchbeck glass into 
his right eye. “ Beef mottled, cowey — humph ! Lamb ; — 
oldish — rawish — muttony — humph! Pie; — stalish. Veal? — no, 
pork. Ah ! what will you have ? ” 


86 


THE CAXTONS : 


“ Help yourself,” replied the young man peevishly, as he sat 
up, looked disdainfully at the viands, and, after a long pause, 
tasted first one, and then the other, with many shrugs of the 
shoulders and muttered exclamations of discontent. Suddenly 
he looked up, and called for brandy ; and, to my surprise, and I 
fear admiration, he drank nearly half a tumblerful of that poison 
undiluted, with a composure that spoke of habitual use. 

“ Wrong ! ” said his companion, drawing the bottle to himself, 
and mixing the alcohol in careful proportions with water. 
“ Wrong ! coats of stomach soon wear out with that kind of 
clothes-brush. Better stick to the f yeasty foam/ as sweet Will 
says. That young gentleman sets you a good example,” and 
therewith the speaker nodded at me familiarly. Inexperienced 
as I was, I surmised at once that it was his intention to make 
acquaintance with the neighbour thus saluted. I was not 
deceived. “ Anything to tempt you , sir?” asked this social 
personage after a short pause, and describing a semicircle with 
the point of his knife. 

“ I thank you, sir, but I have dined.” 

“ What then ? f Break out into a second course of mischief/ 
as the swan recommends — swan of Avon, sir ! No ? * Well, then, 
I charge you with this sup of sack.’ Are you going far, if I may 
take the liberty to ask ? ” 

“To London.” 

“ Oh ! ” said the traveller — while his young companion lifted 
his eyes ; and I was again struck with their remarkable penetra- 
tion and brilliancy. 

“ London is the best place in the world for a lad of spirit. 
See life there; f glass of fashion and mould of form.’ Fond of 
the play, sir ? ” 

“ I never saw one.” 

“ Possible ! ” cried the gentleman, dropping the handle of his 
knife, and bringing up the point horizontally : “ then, young 
man, he added solemnly, “you have — but I won’t say what you 
have to see. I won’t say — no, not if you could cover this table 
with golden guineas, and exclaim with the generous ardour so 
engaging in youth, ‘ Mr. Peacock, these are yours if you will 
only say what I have to see ! ’ ” 

I laughed outright — may I be forgiven for the boast, but I 
had the reputation at school of a pleasant laugh. The young 
man’s face grew dark at the sound : he pushed back his plate 
and sighed. 

“Why, continued his friend, “my companion here, who, I 


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87 


suppose, is about your own age, he could tell you what a play is 
— he could tell you what life is. He has viewed the manners 
of the town: ( perused the traders/ as the swan poetically re- 
marks. Have you not, my lad, eh ? ” 

Thus directly appealed to, the boy looked up with a smile of 
scorn on his lips — 

“Yes, I know what life is, and I say that life, like poverty, 
has strange bed-fellows. Ask me what life is now, and I say a 
melodrama ; ask me what it is twenty years hence, and I shall 
say ” 

“ A farce ? ” put in his comrade. 

“No, a tragedy — or comedy as Moli&re wrote it.” 

“And how is that?” I asked, interested and somewhat sur- 
prised at the tone of my contemporary. 

“Where the play ends in the triumph of the wittiest rogue. 
My friend here has no chance ! ” 

“ ‘ Praise from Sir Hubert Stanley/ hem — yes, Hal Peacock 
may be witty, but he is no rogue.” 

“ That was not exactly my meaning,” said the boy dryly. 

A fico for your meaning,’ as the swan says. — Hallo, you, 
sir ! Bully Host, clear the table, — fresh tumblers — hot water — 

sugar — lemon, — and the bottle’s out! Smoke, sir? ’’and 

Mr. Peacock offered me a cigar. 

Upon my refusal, he carefully twirled round a very uninviting 
specimen of some fabulous havannah — moistened it all over, as 
a boa-constrictor may do the ox he prepares for deglutition ; bit 
off one end, and lighting the other from a little machine for 
that purpose which he drew from his pocket, he was soon ab- 
sorbed in a vigorous effort (which the damp inherent in the weed 
long resisted) to poison the surrounding atmosphere. There- 
with the young gentleman, either from emulation or in self- 
defence, extracted from his own pouch a cigar-case of notable 
elegance, — being of velvet, embroidered apparently by some fair 
hand, for “From Juliet” was very legibly worked thereon — 
selected a cigar of better appearance than that in favour with his 
comrade, and seemed quite as familiar with the tobacco as he 
had been with the brandy. 

“Fast, sir — fast lad that,” quoth Mr. Peacock, in the short 
gasps which his resolute struggle with his uninviting victim 
alone permitted — “nothing but (puff, puff) your true (suck, 
suck) syl — syl — sylva — does for him. Out, by the Lord ! ‘ the 
jaws of darkness have devoured it up;’” and again Mr. Peacock 
applied to his phosphoric machine. This time patience and 


88 


THE CAXTONS: 


perseverance succeeded, and the heart of the cigar responded 
by a dull red spark (leaving the sides wholly untouched) to the 
indefatigable ardour of its wooer. 

This feat accomplished, Mr. Peacock exclaimed triumphantly, 
“ And now, what say you, my lads, to a game at cards ? — three 
of us — whist and a dummy — nothing better — eh ? ” As he 
spoke he produced from his coat pocket a red silk handkerchief, 
a bunch of keys, a nightcap, a tooth-brush, a piece of shaving- 
soap, four lumps of sugar, the remains of a bun, a razor, and a 
pack of cards. Selecting the last, and returning its motley 
accompaniments to the abyss whence they had emerged, he 
turned up, with a jerk of his thumb and finger, the knave of 
clubs, and placing it on the top of the rest, slapped the cards 
emphatically on the table. 

“You are very good, but I don’t know whist,” said I. 

“ Not know whist — not been to a play — not smoke ! Then 
pray tell me, young man,” said he majestically, and with a 
frown, “ what on earth you do know ! ” 

Much consternated by this direct appeal, and greatly ashamed 
of my ignorance of the cardinal points of erudition in Mr. 
Peacock’s estimation, I hung my head and looked down. 

“That is right,” renewed Mr. Peacock more benignly; "you 
have the ingenuous shame of youth. It is promising, sir 
— f lowliness is young ambition’s ladder,’ as the swan says. 
Mount the first step, and learn whist — sixpenny points to 
begin with.” 

Notwithstanding any newness in actual life, I had had the 
good fortune to learn a little of the way before me, by those 
much-slandered guides called novels — works which are often to 
the inner world what maps are to the outer ; and sundry recol- 
lections of “Gil Bias” and the “Vicar of Wakefield” came 
athwart me. I had no wish to emulate the worthy Moses, and 
felt that I might not have even the shagreen spectacles to 
boast of in my negotiations with this new Mr. Jenkinson. 
Accordingly, shaking my head, I called for my bill. As I took 
out my purse — knit by my mother — with one gold piece in one 
corner, and sundry silver ones in the other, I saw that the eyes 
of Mr. Peacock twinkled. 

“ Poor spirit, sir ! poor spirit, young man ! “ This avarice 

sticks deep,’ as the swan beautifully observes. ' Nothing 
venture, nothing have.’ ” 

“Nothing have, nothing venture,” I returned, plucking up 
spirit. 


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89 


“ Nothing have ! — Young sir, do you doubt my solidity — my 
capital — my ‘ golden joys * ? ” 

“Sir, I spoke of myself. I am not rich enough to gamble.” 

“ Gamble ! ” exclaimed Mr. Peacock, in virtuous indig- 
nation — “Gamble! what do you mean, sir? You insult me!” 
and he rose threateningly, and clapped his white hat on 
his wig. 

“ Pshaw ! let him alone, Hal,” said the boy contemptuously. 
“ Sir, if he is impertinent, thrash him.” (This was to me.) 

“Impertinent! — thrash!” exclaimed Mr. Peacock, waxing 
very red ; but catching the sneer on his companion’s lip, he sat 
down, and subsided into sullen silence. 

Meanwhile I paid my bill. This duty, rarely a cheerful 
one, performed, I looked round for my knapsack, and per- 
ceived that it was in the boy’s hands. He was very coolly 
reading the address which, in case of accidents, I prudently 

placed on it — “ Pisistratus Caxton, Esq., Hotel, Street, 

Strand.” 

I took my knapsack from him, more surprised at such a breach 
of good manners in a young gentleman who knew life so well, 
than I should have been at a similar error on the part of Mr. 
Peacock. He made no apology, but nodded farewell, and 
stretched himself at full length on the bench. Mr. Peacock, 
now absorbed in a game of patience, vouchsafed no return to 
my parting salutation, and in another moment I was alone on 
the high-road. My thoughts turned long upon the young man 
I had left ; mixed with a sort of instinctive compassionate fore- 
boding of an ill future for one with such habits, and in such 
companionship, I felt an involuntary admiration, less even for his 
good looks than his ease, audacity, and the careless superiority 
lie assumed over a comrade so much older than himself. 

The day was far gone when I saw the spires of a town at 
which I intended to rest for the night. The horn of a coach 
behind made me turn my head, and, as the vehicle passed 
me, I saw on the outside Mr. Peacock, still struggling with 
a cigar — it could scarcely be the same — and his young friend 
stretched on the roof amongst the luggage, leaning his hand- 
some head on his hand, and apparently unobservant both of 
me and every one else. 


90 


THE CAXTONS: 


CHAPTER V 

T AM apt — judging egotistically, perhaps, from my own experi- 
ence — to measure a young man's chance of what is termed 
practical success in life, by what may seem at first two very 
vulgar qualities ; viz., his inquisitiveness and his animal vivacity. 
A curiosity which springs forward to examine everything new 
to his information- a nervous activity, approaching to restless- 
ness, which rarely allows bodily fatigue to interfere with some 
object in view — constitute, in my mind, very profitable stock-in- 
hand to begin the world with. 

Tired as I was, after I had performed my ablutions, and 
refreshed myself in the little coffee-room of the inn at which I 
put up, with the pedestrian’s best beverage, familiar and oft- 
calumniated tea, I could not resist the temptation of the broad, 
bustling street, which, lighted with gas, shone on me through 
the dim windows of the coffee-room. I had never before seen 
a large town, and the contrast of lamp-lit, busy night in the 
streets, with sober, deserted night in the lanes and fields, struck 
me forcibly. 

I sauntered out, therefore, jostling and jostled, now gazing at 
the windows, now hurried along the tide of life, till I found my- 
self before a cook-shop, round which clustered a small knot of 
housewives, citizens, and hungry-looking children. While con- 
templating this group, and marvelling how it comes to pass that 
the staple business of earth’s majority is how, when, and where 
to eat, my ear was struck with “ ‘ In Troy there lies the scene,* 
as the illustrious Will remarks.” 

Looking round, I perceived Mr. Peacock pointing his stick 
towards an open doorway next to the cook-shop, the hall beyond 
which was lighted with gas, while, painted in black letters on a 
pane of glass over the door, was the word “ Billiards.” 

Suiting the action to the word, the speaker plunged at once 
into the aperture, and vanished. The boy-companion was folio w- 
ing more slowly when his eye caught mine. A slight blush came 
over his dark cheek ; he stopped, and leaning against the door- 
jambs, gazed on me hard and long before he said— "Well met 
again, sir ! You find it hard to amuse yourself in this dull place ; 
the nights are long out of London.” 

“ Oh,” said I ingenuously, " everything here amuses me ; the 
lights, the shops, the crowd; but, then, to me everything is new.” 


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91 


The youth came from his lounging-place and moved on, as if 
inviting me to walk; while he answered, rather with bitter sullen- 
ness, than the melancholy his words expressed — 

" One thing, at least, cannot be new to you ; it is an old truth 
with us before we leave the nursery — ‘ Whatever is w r orth having 
must be bought ; ergo, he who cannot buy, has nothing worth 
having/ ” 

“ I don’t think,” said I wisely, " that the things best worth 
having can be bought at all. You see that poor dropsical jeweller 
standing before his shop-door : his shop is the finest in the street, 
— and I dare say he would be very glad to give it to you or me 
in return for our good health and strong legs. Oh no ! I think 
with my father — ‘ All that are worth having are given to all ; ’ — 
that is, nature and labour.” 

" Your father says that ; and you go by what your father says ! 
Of course, all fathers have preached that, and many other good 
doctrines, since Adam preached to Cain ; but I don’t see that the 
fathers have found their sons very credulous listeners.” 

" So much the worse for the sons,” said I bluntly. 

" Nature,” continued my new acquaintance, without attending 
to my ejaculation — "nature indeed does give us much, and nature 
also orders each of us how to use her gifts. If nature give you 
the propensity to drudge, you will drudge ; if she give me the 
ambition to rise, and the contempt for work, I may rise — but I 
certainly shall not work.” 

"Oh,” said I, "you agree with Squills, I suppose, and fancy 
we are all guided by the bumps on our foreheads ? ” 

"And the blood in our veins, and our mothers’ milk. We 
inherit other things besides gout and consumption. So you 
always do as your father tells you ! Good boy ! ” 

I was piqued. Why we should be ashamed of being taunted 
for goodness, I never could understand ; but certainly I felt 
humbled. However, I answered sturdily — " If you had as good 
a father as I have, you would not think it so very extraordinary 
to do as he tells you.” 

" Ah ! so he is a very good father, is he ! He must have a 
great trust in your sobriety and steadiness to let you wander 
about the world as he does.” 

" I am going to join him in London.” 

" In London ! Oh, does he live there ? ” 

" He is going to live there for some time.” 

" Then, perhaps, we may meet. I, too, am going to town.” 

" Oh, we shall be sure to meet there ! ” said I, with frank 


92 


THE CAXTONS: 


gladness ; for my interest in the young man was not diminished 
by his conversation, however much I disliked the sentiments it 
expressed. 

The lad laughed — and his laugh was peculiar: it was low, 
musical, but hollow and artificial. 

“ Sure to meet ! London is a large place : where shall you 
be found ? ” 

I gave him, without scruple, the address of the hotel at which 
I expected to find my father ; although his deliberate inspection 
of my knapsack must already have apprised him of that address. 
He listened attentively, and repeated it twice over, as if to 
impress it on his memory ; and we both walked on in silence, 
till, turning up a small passage, we suddenly found ourselves in 
a large churchyard, — a flagged path stretched diagonally across 
it towards the market-place, on which it bordered. In this 
churchyard, upon a gravestone, sat a young Savoyard ; his hurdy- 
gurdy, or whatever else his instrument might be called, was on 
his lap ; and he was gnawing his crust, and feeding some poor 
little white mice (standing on their hind-legs on the hurdy- 
gurdy) as merrily as if he had chosen the gayest resting-place 
in the world. 

We both stopped. The Savoyard, seeing us, put his arch 
head on one side, showed all his white teeth in that happy smile 
so peculiar to his race, and in which poverty seems to beg so 
blithely, and gave the handle of his instrument a turn. 

“ Poor child ! ” said I. 

“ Aha, you pity him ! but why ? According to your rule, Mr. 
Caxton, he is not so much to be pitied ; the dropsical jeweller 
would give him as much for his limbs and health as for ours ! 
How is it — answer me, son of so wise a father — that no one 
pities the dropsical jeweller, and all pity the healthy Savoyard ? 
Is it, sir, because there is a stern truth which is stronger than 
all Spartan lessons — Poverty is the master-ill of the world. 
Look round. Does poverty leave its signs over the graves ? 
Look at that large tomb fenced round ; read that long inscrip- 
tion : — ' Virtue’ — 'best of husbands’ — 'affectionate father’ — 
— 'inconsolable grief’ — 'sleeps in the joyful hope,’ &c., &c. 
Do you suppose these stoneless mounds hide no dust of what 
were men just as good? But no epitaph tells their virtues, 
bespeaks their wives’ grief, or promises joyful hope to them ! ” 

" Does it matter ? Does God care for the epitaph and tomb- 
stone?” 

“ Datemi qualcke cosa!” said the Savoyard, in his touching 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


93 


patois, still smiling, and holding out his little hand ; therein I 
dropped a small coin. The boy evinced his gratitude by a new 
turn of the hurdy-gurdy. 

“That is not labour,” said my companion; “and had you 
found him at work, you had given him nothing. I, too, have my 
instrument to play upon, and my mice to see after. Adieu ! ” 

He waved his hand, and strode irreverently over the graves 
back in the direction we had come. 

I stood before the fine tomb with its fine epitaph : the 
Savoyard looked at me wistfully. 


CHAPTER VI 



Savoyard looked at me wistfully. I wished to enter into 


conversation with him. That was not easy. However, I 


began : — 


Pisistratus. — “You must be often hungry enough, my poor 
boy. Do the mice feed you ? ” 

Savoyard puts his head on- one side, shakes it and strokes his 
mice. 

Pisistratus. — “ You are very fond of the mice ; they are your 
only friends, I fear.” 

Savoyard, evidently understanding Pisistratus, rubs his face 
gently against the mice, then puts them softly down on a grave, 
and gives a turn to the hurdy-gurdy. The mice play uncon- 
cernedly over the grave. 

Pisistratus, pointing first to the beasts, then to the instrument. 
— “ Which do you like best, the mice or the hurdy-gurdy ? ” 

Savoyard shows his teeth — considers — stretches himself on 
the grass — plays with the mice — and answers volubly. 

Pisistratus, by the help of Latin, comprehending that the 
Savoyard says that the mice are alive, and the hurdy-gurdy is 
not — “ Yes, a live friend is better than a dead one. Mortua est 
hurda-gurda ! ” 

Savoyard shakes his head vehemently. — “No — no ! Eccellenza, 
non e morta ! ” and strikes up a lively air on the slandered instru- 
ment. The Savoyard’s face brightens — he looks happy : the mice 
run from the grave into his bosom. 

Pisistratus, affected, and putting the question in Latin. — 
“ Have you a father ? ” 

Savoyard, with his face overcast. — “ No — Eccellenza ! ” then 


94 


THE CAXTONS 


pausing a little, he says briskly, “ Si si ! ” and plays a solemn air 
on the hurdy-gurdy — stops — rests one hand on the instrument, 
1 and raises the other to heaven. 

Pisistratus understands : the father is like the hurdy-gurdy, 
at once dead and living. The mere form is a dead thing, but 
the music lives. Pisistratus drops another small piece of silver 
on the ground, and turns away. 

God help and God bless thee, Savoyard. Thou hast done 
Pisistratus all the good in the world. Thou hast corrected the 
hard wisdom of the young gentleman in the velveteen jacket ; 
Pisistratus is a better lad for having stopped to listen to thee. 

I regained the entrance to the churchyard — I looked back : 
there sat the Savoyard, still amidst men’s graves, but under 
God’s sky. He was still looking at me wistfully ; and when he 
caught my eye, he pressed his hand to his heart, and smiled. 
God help and God bless thee, young Savoyard. 


PART V 


CHAPTER I 

TN setting off the next morning, the Boots, whose heart I had won 
by an extra sixpence for calling me betimes, good-naturedly 
informed me that I might save a mile of the journey, and have 
a very pleasant walk into the bargain, if I took the footpath 
through a gentleman’s park, the lodge of which I should see 
about seven miles from the town. 

“ And the grounds are showed too,” said the Boots, “if so be 
you has a mind to stay and see ’em. But don’t you go to the 
gardener, he’ll want half-a-crown ; there’s an old ’oman at the 
lodge, who will show you all that’s worth seeing — the walks and 
the big cascade — for a tizzy. You may make use of my name,” 
he added proudly — “ Bob, boots at the Lion. She be a //aunt 
o’ mine, and she minds them that come from me pertiklerly.” 

Not doubting that the purest philanthropy actuated these 
counsels, I thanked my shock-headed friend, and asked carelessly 
to whom the park belonged. 

“To Muster Trevanion, the great Parliament man,” answered 
the Boots. “You has heard o’ him, I guess, sir?” 

I shook my head, surprised every hour more and more to find 
how very little there was in it. 

“ They takes in the Moderate Man's Journal at the Lamb ; 
and they say in the tap there that he’s one of the cleverest 
chaps in the House o’ Commons,” continued the Boots in a 
confidential whisper. “ But we takes in the People s Thunderbolt 
at the Lion, and we knows better this Muster Trevanion: he 
is but a trimmer — milk and water, no ^orator, — not the right 
sort, — you understand ? ” 

Perfectly satisfied that I understood nothing about it, I smiled, 
and said, “ Oh yes ; ” and slipping on my knapsack, commenced 
my adventures ; the Boots bawling after me, “ Mind, sir, you 
tells //aunt I sent you ! ” 

The town was only languidlv putting forth symptoms of re- 

"95 


96 


THE CAXTONS : 


turning life as I strode through the streets; a pale sickly un- 
wholesome look on the face of the slothful Phoebus had succeeded 
the feverish hectic of the past night : the artisans whom I met 
glided by me haggard and dejected ; a few early shops were 
alone open ; one or two drunken men, emerging from the lanes, 
sallied homeward with broken pipes in their mouths ; bills, with 
large capitals, calling attention to “ Best family teas at 4s. a 
pound ; ” “ the arrival of Mr. Sloman’s caravan of wild beasts ; ” 
and Dr. Do’em’s “ Paracelsian Pills of Immortality/’ stared out 
dull and uncheering from the walls of tenantless dilapidated 
houses, in that chill sunrise which favours no illusion. I was 
glad when I had left the town behind me, and saw the reapers 
in the corn-fields, and heard the chirp of the birds. I arrived 
at the lodge of which the Boots had spoken : a pretty rustic 
building half-concealed by a belt of plantations, with two large 
iron gates for the owner’s friends, and a small turn-stile for the 
public, who, by some strange neglect on his part, or sad want 
of interest with the neighbouring magistrates, had still preserved 
a right to cross the rich man’s domains, and look on his grandeur, 
limited to compliance with a reasonable request mildly stated 
on the notice-board, “to keep to the paths.” As it was not yet 
eight o’clock, I had plenty of time before me to see the grounds, 
and profiting by the economical hint of the Boots, I entered the 
lodge, and inquired for the old lady who was /taunt to Mr. Bob. 
A young woman, who was busied in preparing breakfast, nodded 
with great civility to this request, and, hastening to a bundle of 
clothes which I then perceived in the corner, she cried, “ Grand- 
mother, here’s a gentleman to see the cascade.” 

The bundle of clothes then turned round, and exhibited a 
human countenance, which lighted up with great intelligence 
as the grand-daughter, turning to me, said with simplicity — - 
“ She’s old, honest cretur, but she still likes to earn a sixpence, 
sir ; ” and taking a crutch-staff in her hand while her grand- 
daughter put a neat bonnet on her head, this industrious gentle- 
woman sallied out at a pace which surprised me. 

I attempted to enter into conversation with my guide ; but 
she did not seem much inclined to be sociable, and the beauty 
of the glades and groves which now spread before my eyes re- 
conciled me to silence. 

I have seen many fine places since then, but I do not re- 
member to have seen a landscape more beautiful in its peculiar 
English character than that which I now gazed on. It had 
none of the feudal characteristics of ancient parks, with giant 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


97 


oaks, fantastic pollards, glens covered with fern, and deer 
grouped upon the slopes ; on the contrary, in spite of some fine 
trees, chiefly beech, the impression conveyed was, that it was a 
new place — a made place. You might see ridges on the lawns 
which showed where hedges had been removed ; the pastures 
were parcelled out in divisions by new wire-fences ; young 
plantations, planned with exquisite taste, but without the 
venerable formality of avenues and quincunxes, by which you 
know the parks that date from Elizabeth and James, diversi- 
fied the rich extent of verdure ; instead of deer, were short- 
horned cattle of the finest breed — sheep that would have won 
the prize at an agricultural show. Everywhere there was the 
evidence of improvement — energy — capital; but capital clearly 
not employed for the mere purpose of return. The ornamental 
was too conspicuously predominant amidst the lucrative, not to 
say eloquently — “ The owner is willing to make the most of his 
land, but not the most of his money.” 

But the old woman’s eagerness to earn sixpence had impressed 
me unfavourably as to the character of the master. “ Here,” 
thought I, “ are all the signs of riches ; and yet this poor old 
woman, living on the very threshold of opulence, is in want of a 
sixpence.” 

These surmises, in the indulgence of which I piqued myself 
on my penetration, were strengthened into conviction by the 
few sentences which I succeeded at last in eliciting from the 
old woman. 

“ Mr. Trevanion must be a rich man ? ” said I. 

“ O ay, rich eno’ ! ” grumbled my guide. 

“ And,” said I, surveying the extent of shrubbery or dressed 
ground through which our way wound, now emerging into lawns 
and glades, now belted by rare garden-trees, now (as every 
inequality of the ground was turned to advantage in the land- 
scape) sinking into the dell, now climbing up the slopes, and 
now confining the view to some object of graceful art or en- 
chanting nature — And,” said I, “ he must employ many hands 
here — plenty of work, eh ? ” 

“ Ay, ay — I don’t say that he don’t find work for those who 
want it. But it ain’t the same place it wor in my day.” 

“ You remember it in other hands, then ? ” 

“ Ay, ay ! When the Hogtons had it, honest folk ! My good 
man was the gardener — none of those set-up fine gentlemen 
who can’t put hand to a spade.” 

Poor faithful old woman ! 

G 


98 


THE CAXTONS : 


I began to hate the unknown proprietor. Here clearly was 
some mushroom usurper who had bought out the old simple 
hospitable family, neglected its ancient servants, left them to 
earn tizzies by showing waterfalls, and insulted their eyes by his 
selfish wealth. 

“ There’s the water all spd’t — it warn’t so in my day,” said 
the guide. 

A rivulet, whose murmur I had long heard, now stole suddenly 
into view, and gave to the scene the crowning charm. As, re- 
lapsing into silence, we tracked its sylvan course, under dipping 
chestnuts and shady limes, the house itself emerged on the 
opposite side — a modern building of white stone, with the 
noblest Corinthian portico I ever saw in this country. 

“ A fine house, indeed,” said I. “ Is Mr. Trevanion here 
much ? ” 

“ Ay, ay — I don’t mean to say that he goes away altogether, 
but it ain’t as it wor in my day, when the Hogtons lived here 
all the year round in their warm house, — not that one.” 

Good old woman, and these poor banished Hogtons ! thought 
I ; hateful parvenu ! I was pleased when a curve in the 
shrubberies shut out the house from view, though in reality 
bringing us nearer to it. And the boasted cascade, whose roar 
I had heard for some moments, came in sight. 

Amidst the Alps, such a waterfall would have been insignifi- 
cant, but contrasting ground highly dressed, with no other bold 
features, its effect was striking, and even grand. The banks 
were here narrowed and compressed ; rocks, partly natural, 
partly no doubt artificial, gave a rough aspect to the margin ; 
and the cascade fell from a considerable height into rapid 
waters, which my guide mumbled out were “ mortal deep.” 

“ There wor a madman leapt over where you be standing,” 
said the old woman, “two years ago last June.” 

“ A madman ! why,” said I, observing, with an eye practised 
in the gymnasium of the Hellenic Institute, the narrow space of 
the banks over the gulf — “why, my good lady, it need not be a 
madman to perform that leap.” 

And so saying, with one of those sudden impulses which it 
would be wrong to ascribe to the noble quality of courage, I 
drew back a few steps, and cleared the abyss. But when from 
the other side I looked back at what I had done, and saw that 
failure had been death, a sickness came over me, and I felt as 
if I would not have releapt the gulf to become lord of the 
domain. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 99 

“And how am I to get back?” said I in a forlorn voice to 
the old woman, who stood staring at me on the other side — 
“ Ah ! I see there is a bridge below.” 

“ But you can’t go over the bridge ; there’s a gate on it ; 
master keeps the key himself. You are in the private grounds 
now. Dear — dear ! the squire would be so angry if he knew. 
You must go back ; and they’ll see you from the house ! Dear 
me ! dear — dear ! What shall I do ? Can’t you leap back 
again ? ” 

Moved by these piteous exclamations, and not wishing to 
subject the poor old lady to the wrath of a master evidently an 
unfeeling tyrant, I resolved to pluck up courage and releap the 
dangerous abyss. 

“ Oh yes — never fear,” said I, therefore. “ What’s been 
done once ought to be done twice, if needful. Just get out of 
my way, will you ? ” 

And I receded several paces over a ground much too rough 
to favour my run for a spring. But my heart knocked against 
my ribs. I felt that impulse can do wonders where preparation 
fails. 

“You had best be quick, then,” said the old woman. 

Horrid old woman ! I began to esteem her less. I set my 
teeth, and was about to rush on, when a voice close beside me 
said — 

“ Stay, young man ; I will let you through the gate.” 

I turned round sharply, and saw close by my side, in great 
wonder that I had not seen him before, a man, whose homely 
(but not working) dress seemed to intimate his station as that of 
the head-gardener, of whom my guide had spoken. He was 
seated on a stone under a chestnut tree, with an ugly cur at his 
feet, who snarled at me as I turned. 

“Thank you, my man,” said I joyfully. “I confess frankly 
that I was very much afraid of that leap.” 

“Ho! Yet you said, what can be done once can be done 
twice.” 

“ I did not say it could be done, but ought to be done.” 

“ Humph ! That’s better put.” 

Here the man rose ; the dog came and smelt my legs, and 
then, as if satisfied with my respectability, wagged the stump of 
his tail. 

I looked across the waterfall for the old woman, and to my 
surprise saw her hobbling back as fast as she could. 

“Ah!” said I, laughing, “the poor old thing is afraid you’ll 


100 


THE CAXTONS: 


tell her master — for you’re the head-gardener, I suppose ? But 
I am the only person to blame. Pray say that, if you mention 
the circumstance at all ! ” and I drew out half-a-crown, which I 
proffered to my new conductor. 

He put back the money with a low, “ Humph — not amiss.” 
Then, in a louder voice, “ No occasion to bribe me, young man ; 
I saw it all.” 

“I fear your master is rather hard to the poor Hogtons’ old 
servants.” 

“ Is he ? Oh ! humph ! my master. Mr. Trevanion you 
mean ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Well, I dare say people say so. This is the way.” And he 
led me down a little glen away from the fall. 

Everybody must have observed, that after he has incurred or 
escaped a great danger, his spirits rise wonderfully — he is in a 
state of pleasing excitement. So it was with me. I talked to 
the gardener a cceur ouvert, as the French say : and I did not 
observe that his short monosyllables in rejoinder all served to 
draw out my little history — my journey, its destination; my 
schooling under Dr. Herman, and my father’s Great Book. I 
was only made somewhat suddenly aware of the familiarity that 
had sprung up between us, when, just as, having performed a 
circuitous meander, we regained the stream and stood before 
an iron gate, set in an arch of rockwork, my companion said 
simply — “ And your name, young gentleman ? What’s your 
name ? ” 

I hesitated a moment ; but having heard that such com- 
munications were usually made by the visitors of show places, I 
answered — “ Oh ! a very venerable one, if your master is what 
they call a bibliomaniac — Caxton.” 

“ Caxton ! ” cried the gardener, with some vivacity : “ there is 
a Cumberland family of that name ” 

“That’s mine; and my Uncle Roland is the head of that 
family.” 

“ And you are the son of Augustine Caxton ? ” 

“ I am. You have heard of my dear father, then ? ” 

“We will not pass by the gate now. Follow me — this way ; ” 
and my guide, turning abruptly round, strode up a narrow path, 
and the house stood a hundred yards before me ere I recovered 
my surprise. 

“Pardon me,” said I, “but where are we going, my good 
friend?” 


A V 


« 






A FAMILY PICTURE 


101 


“Good friend — good friend ! Well said, sir. You are going 
amongst good friends. I was at college with your father. I 
loved him well. I knew a little of your uncle too. My name 
is Trevanion.” 

Blind young fool that I was ! The moment my guide told 
his name, I was struck with amazement at my unaccountable 
mistake. The small insignificant figure took instant dignity ; 
the homely dress, of rough dark broadcloth, was the natural and 
becoming dishabille of a country gentleman in his own demesnes. 
Even the ugly cur became a Scotch terrier of the rarest breed. 

My guide smiled good-naturedly at my stupor ; and patting 
me on the shoulder, said — - 

“It is the gardener you must apologise to, not me. He is a 
very handsome fellow, six feet high.” 

I had not found my tongue before we had ascended a broad 
flight of stairs under the portico ; passed a spacious hall, 
adorned with statues and fragrant with large orange-trees ; and, 
entering a small room, hung with pictures, in which were 
arranged all the appliances for breakfast, my companion said 
to a lady, who rose from behind the tea-urn, “ My dear Ellinor, 
I introduce to you the son of our old friend Augustine Caxton. 
Make him stay with us as long as he can. Young gentleman, 
in Lady Ellinor Trevanion think that you see one whom you 
ought to know well — family friendships should descend.” 

My host said these last words in an imposing tone, and then 
pounced on a letter-bag on the table, drew forth an immense 
heap of letters and newspapers, threw himself into an arm- 
chair, and seemed perfectly forgetful of my existence. 

The lady stood a moment in mute surprise, and I saw that 
she changed colour from pale to red, and red to pale, before 
she come forward with the enchanting grace of unaffected 
kindness, took me by the hand, drew me to a seat next to her 
own, and asked so cordially after my father, my uncle, my 
whole family, that in five minutes I felt myself at home. Lady 
Ellinor listened with a smile (though with moistened eyes, 
which she wiped every now and then) to my artless details. 
At length she said — 

“ Have you never heard your father speak of me — I mean of 
us — of the Trevanions ? ” 

“Never,” said I bluntly; “and that would puzzle me, only 
my dear father, you know, is not a great talker.” 

“ Indeed ! he was very animated when I knew him,” said 
Lady Ellinor ; and she turned her head and sighed. 


102 


THE CAXTONS : 


At this moment there entered a young lady, so fresh, so 
blooming, so lovely, that every other thought vanished out of 
my head at once. She came in singing, as gay as a bird, 
and seeming to my adoring sight quite as native to the 
skies. 

“ Fanny,” said Lady Ellinor, “ shake hands with Mr. Caxton, 
the son of one whom I have not seen since I was little older 
than you, but whom I remember as if it were but yesterday.” 

Miss Fanny blushed and smiled, and held out her hand with 
an easy frankness which I in vain endeavoured to imitate. 
During breakfast, Mr. Trevanion continued to read his letters 
and glance over the papers, with an occasional ejaculation of 
“ Pish ! ” — “ Stuff! ” — between the interval in which he mechani- 
cally swallowed his tea, or some small morsels of dry toast. 
Then rising with a suddenness which characterised his move- 
ments, he stood on his hearth for a few moments buried in 
thought ; and now that a large-brimmed hat was removed from 
his brow, and the abruptness of his first movement, with the 
sedateness of his after pause, arrested my curious attention, I 
was more than ever ashamed of my mistake. It was a careworn, 
eager, and yet musing countenance, hollow-eyed, and with deep 
lines ; but it was one of those faces which take dignity and 
refinement from that mental cultivation which distinguishes the 
true aristocrat, viz., the highly educated, acutely intelligent 
man. Very handsome might that face have been in youth, for 
the features, though small, were exquisitely defined ; the brow, 
partially bald, was noble and massive, and there was almost 
feminine delicacy in the curve of the lip. The whole ex- 
pression of the face was commanding, but sad. Often, as my 
experience of life increased, have I thought to trace upon that 
expressive visage the history of energetic ambition curbed by a 
fastidious philosophy and a scrupulous conscience ; but then all 
that I could see was a vague, dissatisfied melancholy, which 
dejected me I knew not why. 

Presently Trevanion returned to the table, collected his letters, 
moved slowly towards the door, and vanished. 

His wife's eyes followed him tenderly. Those eyes reminded 
me of my mother's, as I verily believe did all eyes that expressed 
affection. I crept nearer to her, and longed to press the white 
hand that lay so listless before me. 

"Will you walk out with us?” said Miss Trevanion, turning 
to me. I bowed, and in a few minutes I found myself alone. 
While the ladies left me, for their shawls and bonnets, I took 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


103 


up the newspapers which Mr. Trevanion had thrown on the 
table, by way of something to do. My eye was caught by his 
own name ; it occurred often, and in all the papers. There was 
contemptuous abuse in one, high eulogy in another ; but one 
passage in a journal that seemed to aim at impartiality, struck 
me so much as to remain in my memory; and I am sure that I 
can still quote the sense, though not the exact words. The 
paragraph ran somewhat thus : — 

“ In the present state of parties, our contemporaries have, 
not unnaturally, devoted much space to the claims or demerits 
of Mr. Trevanion. It is a name that stands unquestionably 
high in the House of Commons ; but, as unquestionably, it 
commands little sympathy in the country. Mr. Trevanion is 
essentially and emphatically a member of Parliament He is a 
close and ready debater; and is an admirable chairman in 
committees. Though never in office, his long experience of 
public life, his gratuitous attention to public business, have 
ranked him high among those practical politicians from whom 
ministers are selected. A man of spotless character and excel- 
lent intentions, no doubt, he must be considered ; and in him 
any cabinet would gain an honest and a useful member. There 
ends all we can say in his praise. As a speaker, he wants the 
fire and enthusiasm which engage the popular sympathies. He 
has the ear of the House, not the heart of the country. An 
oracle on subjects of mere business, in the great questions of 
policy he is comparatively a failure. He never embraces any 
party heartily ; he never espouses any question as if wholly in 
earnest. The moderation on which he is said to pique himself, 
often exhibits itself in fastidious crotchets, and an attempt at 
philosophical originality of candour which has long obtained 
him, with his enemies, the reputation of a trimmer. Such a 
man circumstances may throw into temporary power ; but can 
he command lasting influence ? No : let Mr. Trevanion remain 
in what nature and position assign as his proper post — that of 
an upright, independent, able member of Parliament ; conciliat- 
ing sensible men on both sides, when party runs into extremes. 
He is undone as a cabinet minister. His scruples would break 
up any government ; and his want of decision — when, as in all 
human affairs, some errors must be conceded to obtain a great 
good — would shipwreck his own fame.” 

I had just got to the end of this paragraph, when the ladies 
returned. 

My hostess observed the newspaper in my hand, and said, 


104 THE CAXTONS : 

with a constrained smile, “Some attack on Mr. Trevanion, I 
suppose ? ” 

“ No,” said I awkwardly ; for, perhaps, the paragraph that 
appeared to me so impartial, was the most galling attack of 
all — “ No, not exactly.” 

“ I never read the papers now — at least what are called the 
leading articles — it is too painful : and once they gave me so 
much pleasure — that was when the career began, and before 
the fame was made.” 

Here Lady Ellinor opened the window which admitted on 
the lawn, and in a few moments we were in that part of the 
pleasure-grounds which the family reserved from the public 
curiosity. We passed by rare shrubs and strange flowers, long 
ranges of conservatories, in which bloomed and lived all the 
marvellous vegetation of Africa and the Indies. 

“ Mr. Trevanion is fond of flowers ? ” said I. 

The fair Fanny laughed. “ I don’t think he knows one from 
another.” 

“Nor I either,” said I ; “ that is, when I fairly lose sight of a 
rose or a hollyhock.” 

“ The farm will interest you more,” said Lady Ellinor. 

We came to farm buildings recently erected, and no doubt on 
the most improved principle. Lady Ellinor pointed out to me 
machines and contrivances of the newest fashion, for abridging 
labour, and perfecting the mechanical operations of agriculture. 

“ Ah, then, Mr. Trevanion is fond of farming ? ” 

The pretty Fanny laughed again. 

“ My father is one of the great oracles in agriculture, one of 
the great patrons of all its improvements ; but, as for being 
fond of farming, I doubt if he knows his own fields when he 
rides through them.” 

We returned to the house ; and Miss Trevanion, whose frank 
kindness had already made too deep an impression upon the 
youthful heart of Pisistratus the Second, offered to show me the 
picture-gallery. The collection was confined to the works of 
English artists ; and Miss Trevanion pointed out to me the 
main attractions of the gallery. 

“ Well, at least Mr. Trevanion is fond of pictures ? ” 

“ Wrong again,” said Fanny, shaking her arched head. “ My 
father is said to be an admirable judge ; but he only buys 
pictures from a sense of duty — to encourage our own painters. 
A picture once bought, I am not sure that he ever looks at 
it again.” 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


105 


“What does he then ” I stopped short, for I felt my 

meditated question was ill-bred. 

“ What does he like then ? you were about to say. Why, I 
have known him, of course, since I could know anything ; but I 
have never yet discovered what my father does like. No, not 
even politics, though he lives for politics alone. You look 
puzzled ; you will know him better some day, I hope ; but you 
will never solve the mystery — what Mr. Trevanion likes." 

“You are wrong,” said Lady Ellinor, who had followed us 
into the room, unheard by us. “ I can tell you what your father 
does more than like — what he loves and serves every hour of 
his noble life — justice, beneficence, honour, and his country. A 
man who loves these may be excused for indifference to the 
last geranium, or the newest plough, or even (though that 
offends you more, Fanny) the freshest masterpiece by Landseer, 
or the latest fashion honoured by Miss Trevanion.” 

“Mamma!” said Fanny, and the tears sprang to her 
eyes. 

But Lady Ellinor looked to me sublime as she spoke, her 
eyes kindled, her breast heaved. The wife taking the husband’s 
part against the child, and comprehending so well what the 
child felt not, despite its experience of every day, and what the 
world would never know, despite all the vigilance of its praise 
and its blame, was a picture, to my taste, finer than any in 
the collection. 

Her face softened as she saw the tears in Fanny’s bright 
hazel eyes; she held out her hand, which her child kissed 
tenderly ; and whispering, “ ’Tis not the giddy word you must 
go by, mamma, or there will be something to forgive every 
minute,” Miss Trevanion glided from the room. 

“ Have you a sister ? ” asked Lady Ellinor. 

“ No.” 

“And Trevanion has no son,” she said mournfully. The 
blood rushed to my cheeks. Oh, young fool, again ! We were 
both silent, when the door was opened, and Mr. Trevanion 
entered. 

“ Humph ! ” said he, smiling as he saw me — and his smile was 
charming though rare. “ Humph, young sir, I came to seek for 
you — I have been rude, I fear : pardon it — that thought has 
only just occurred to me, so I left my Blue Books, and my 
amanuensis hard at work on them, to ask you to come out for 
half-an-hour, — just half-an-hour, it is all I can give you — a 
deputation at one ! You dine and sleep here, of course ?” 


106 


THE CAXTONS . 


" All, sir, my motner will be so uneasy if I am not in town 
to-night.” 

" Pooh ! ” said the member, " I’ll send an express.” 

" Oh, no indeed ; thank you.” 

" Why not ? ” 

I hesitated. " You see, sir, that my father and mother are 
both new to London; and though I am new too, yet they may 
want me — I may be of use.” Lady Ellinor put her hand on my 
head, and sleeked down my hair as I spoke. 

" Right, young man, right ; you will do in the world, wrong 
as that is. I don’t mean that you’ll succeed, as the rogues say — 
that’s another question ; but, if you don’t rise, you’ll not fall. 
Now, put on your hat and come with me ; we’ll walk to the 
lodge — you will be in time for a coach.” 

I took my leave of Lady Ellinor, and longed to say something 
about " compliments to Miss Fanny ” ; but the words stuck in 
my throat, and my host seemed impatient. 

w We must see you soon again,” said Lady Ellinor kindly, as 
she followed us to the door. 

Mr. Trevanion walked on briskly and in silence — one hand in 
his bosom, the other swinging carelessly a thick walking-stick. 

" But I must go round by the bridge,” said I, " for I forgot my 
knapsack. I threw it off when I made my leap, and the old 
lady certainly never took charge of it.” 

“ Come, then, this way. How old are you ? ” 

"Seventeen and a half.” 

"You know Latin and Greek as they know them at schools, 
I suppose ? ” 

“ I think I know them pretty well, sir.” 

" Does your father say so ? ” 

" Why, my father is fastidious ; however, he owns that he is 
satisfied on the whole.” 

" So am I, then. Mathematics ? ” 

" A little.” 

" Good.” 

Here the conversation dropped for some time I had found 
and restrapped the knapsack, and we were near the lodge, when 
Mr. Trevanion said abruptly, " Talk, my young friend, talk : I 
like to hear you talk — it refreshes me. Nobody has talked natu- 
rally to me these last ten years.” 

The request was a complete damper to my ingenuous 
eloquence : I could not have talked naturally now for the 
life of me. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


107 


“ I macie a mistake, I see,” said my companion good- 
humouredly, noticing my embarrassment. “ Here we are at 
the lodge. The coach will be by in five minutes : you can 
spend that time in hearing the old woman praise the Hogtons 
and abuse me. And hark you, sir, never care three straws for 
praise or blame — leather and prunella ! praise and blame are 
here ! ” and he struck his hand upon his breast with almost 
passionate emphasis. “Take a specimen. These Hogtons were 
the bane of the place, uneducated and miserly ; their land a 
wilderness, their village a pig-sty. I come, with capital and 
intelligence ; I redeem the soil, I banish pauperism, I civilise 
all around me ; no merit in me — I am but a type of capital 
guided by education — a machine. And yet the old woman is 
not the only one who will hint to you that the Hogtons were 
angels, and myself the usual antithesis to angels. And, what 
is more, sir, because that old woman, who has ten shillings a 
week from me, sets her heart upon earning her sixpences — and 
I give her that privileged luxury — every visitor she talks to goes 
away with the idea that I, the rich Mr. Trevanion, let her 
starve on what she can pick up from the sight-seers. Now, does 
that signify a jot ? Good-bye. Tell your father his old friend 
must see him ; profit by his calm wisdom ; his old friend is a 
fool sometimes, and sad at heart. When you are settled, send me 
a line to St. James’s Square, to say where you are. Humph ! 
that’s enough.” 

Mr. Trevanion wrung my hand, and strode off. 

I did not wait for the coach, but proceeded towards the turn- 
stile, where the old woman (who had either seen, or scented 
from a distance, that tizzy of which I was the impersonation) — 

“ Hushed in grim repose, did wait her morning prey.” 

My opinions as to her sufferings, and the virtues of the de- 
parted Hogtons, somewhat modified, I contented myself with 
dropping into her open palm the exact sum virtually agreed on. 
But that palm still remained open, and the fingers of the other 
clawed hold of me as I stood, impounded in the curve of the 
turnstile, like a cork in a patent corkscrew. 

" And threepence for Nephy Bob,” said the old lady. 

“ Threepence for nephew Bob, and why ? ” 

" ’Tis his parquisites when he recommends a gentleman. 
You would not have me pay out of my own earnings ; for he 
will have it, or he’ll ruin my bizziness. Poor folk must be paid 
for their trouble.” 


108 


THE CAXTONS : 


Obdurate to this appeal, and mentally consigning Bob to a 
master whose feet would be all the handsomer for boots, I 
threaded the stile and escaped. 

Towards evening I reached London. Who ever saw London 
for the first time and was not disappointed ? Those long suburbs 
melting indefinably away into the capital, forbid all surprise. 
The gradual is a great disenchanter. I thought it prudent to 

take a hackney-coach, and so jolted my way to the Hotel, 

the door of which was in a small street out of the Strand, 
though the greater part of the building faced that noisy 
thoroughfare. I found my father in a state of great discomfort 
in a little room, which he paced up and down like a lion new 
caught in his cage. My poor mother was full of complaints — 
for the first time in her life, I found her indisputably crossish. 
It was an ill time to relate my adventures. I had enough to do 
to listen. They had all day been hunting for lodgings in vain. 
My father’s pocket had been picked of a new India handker- 
chief. Primmins, who ought to know London so well, knew 
nothing about it, and declared it was turned topsy-turvy, and all 
the streets had changed names. The new silk umbrella, left for 
five minutes unguarded in the hall, had been exchanged for an 
old gingham with three holes in it. 

It was not till my mother remembered that if she did not 
see herself that my bed was well aired I should certainly lose 
the use of my limbs, and therefore disappeared with Primmins 
and a pert chambermaid, who seemed to think we gave more 
trouble than we were worth, that I told my father of my new 
acquaintance with Mr. Trevanion. 

He did not seem to listen to me till I got to the name 
Trevanion. He then became very pale, and sat down quietly. 
“ Go on,” said he, observing I stopped to look at him. 

When I had told all, and given him the kind messages with 
which I had been charged by husband and wife, he smiled 
faintly ; and then, shading his face with his hand, he seemed to 
muse, not cheerfully, perhaps, for I heard him sigh once or 
twice. 

“ And Ellinor,” said he at last, without looking up — “ Lady 
Ellinor, I mean ; she is very — very ” 

“ Very what, sir ? ” 

"Very handsome still?” 

“ Handsome ! Yes, handsome, certainly ; but I thought more 
of her manner than her face. And then Fanny, Miss Fanny, is 
so young ! ” 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


109 

“ Ah ! ” said ray father, murmuring in Greek the celebrated 
lines of which Pope’s translation is familiar to all : 

“ ‘ Like leaves on trees, the race of man is found. 

Now green in youth, now withering on the ground.’ 

“ Well, so they wish to see me. Did Ellinor, Lady Ellinor, 
say that, or her — her husband ? ” 

“ Her husband, certainly — Lady Ellinor rather implied than 
said it.” 

“ We shall see,” said my father. “ Open the window, this 
room is stifling.” 

I opened the window, which looked on the Strand. The 
noise, the voices, the trampling feet, the rolling wheels, became 
loudly audible. My father leant out for some moments, and 
I stood by his side. He turned to me with a serene face. 
“ Every ant on the hill,” said he, “ carries its load, and its home 
is but made by the burden that it bears. How happy am I ! — 
how I should bless God ! How light my burden ! how secure 
my home ! ” 

My mother came in as he ceased. He went up to her, put 
his arm round her waist and kissed her. Such caresses with 
him had not lost their tender charm by custom : my mother’s 
brow, before somewhat ruffled, grew smooth on the instant. 
Yet she lifted her eyes to his in soft surprise. 

“ I was but thinking,” said my father apologetically, “ how 
much I owed you, and how much I love you ! ” 


CHAPTER II 

AND now behold us, three days after my arrival, settled in all 
the state and grandeur of our own house in Russell Street, 
Bloomsbury: the library of the Museum close at hand. My 
father spends his mornings in those lata silentia , as Virgil calls 
the world beyond the grave. And a world beyond the grave 
we may well call that land of the ghosts, a book collection. 

“ Pisistratus,” said my father, one evening as he arranged his 
notes before him, and rubbed his spectacles. “ Pisistratus, a 
great library is an awful place ! There, are interred all the 
remains of men since the Flood.” 

“ It is a burial-place ! ” quoth my Uncle Roland, who had 
that day found us out. 


110 


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“ It is an Heraclea ! ” said my father. 

“ Please, not such hard words,” said the Captain, shaking his 
head. 

“ Heraclea was the city of necromancers, in which they raised 
the dead. Do I want to speak to Cicero ? — I invoke him. Do 
I want to chat in the Athenian market-place, and hear news two 
thousand years old ? — I write down my charm on a slip of paper, 
and a grave magician calls me uo Aristophanes. And we owe 
all this to our ancest ” 

“ Brother ! ” 

“ Ancestors, who wrote books — thank you.” 

Here Roland offered his snuff-box to my father, who, abhor- 
ring snuff, benignly imbibed a pinch, and sneezed five times in 
consequence ; an excuse for Uncle Roland to say, which he 
did five times, with great unction, “ God bless you, brother 
Austin ! ” 

As soon as my father had recovered himself, he proceeded, 
with tears in his eyes, but calm as before the interruption — for 
he was of the philosophy of the Stoics : — 

“ But it is not that which is awful. It is the presuming to vie 
with these ‘ spirits elect * : to say to them, f Make way — I too 
claim place with the chosen. I too would confer with the 
living, centuries after the death that consumes my dust. I 
too’ — Ah, Pisistratus ! I wish Uncle Jack had been at Jericho 
before he had brought me up to London, and placed me in the 
midst of those rulers of the world ! ” 

I was busy, while my father spoke, in making some pendent 
shelves for these “ spirits elect ” : for my mother, always provi- 
dent where my fathers comforts were concerned, had foreseen 
the necessity of some such accommodation in a hired lodging- 
house, and had not only carefully brought up to town my little 
box of tools, but gone out herself that morning to buy the raw 
materials. Checking the plane in its progress over the smooth 
deal, “ My dear father,” said I, “ if at the Philhellenic Institute 
I had looked with as much awe as you do on the big fellows 
that had gone before me, I should have stayed, to all eternity, 
the lag of the Infant Division.” 

“ Pisistratus, you are as great an agitator as your namesake,” 
cried my father, smiling. “ And so, a fig for the big fellows ! ” 

And now my mother entered in her pretty evening cap, all 
smiles and good humour, having just arranged a room for Uncle 
Roland, concluded advantageous negotiations with the laundress, 
held high council with Mrs. Primmins on the best mode of 


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111 


defeating the extortions of London tradesmen ; and, pleased 
with herself and all the world, she kissed my father’s forehead 
as it bent over his notes, and came to the tea-table, which only 
waited its presiding deity. My Uncle Roland, with his usual 
gallantry, started up, kettle in hand (our own urn — for we had 
one — not being yet unpacked), and having performed with 
soldier-like method the chivalrous office thus volunteered, he 
joined me at my employment, and said — 

“ There is a better steel for the hands of a well-born lad than 
a carpenter’s plane.” 

“ Aha ! uncle — that depends ” 

“ Depends ! — What on ? ** 

“ On the use one makes of it. Peter the Great was better 
employed in making ships than Charles XII. in cutting throats.” 

“ Poor Charles XII. !” said my uncle, sighing pathetically — 
“ a very brave fellow ! ” 

“ Pity he did not like the ladies a little better ! ” 

“ No man is perfect ! ” said my uncle sententiously. “ But, 
seriously, you are now the male hope of the family — you are 

now ” Mv uncle stopped, and his face darkened. I saw that 

he thought of his son — that mysterious son ! And, looking at 
him tenderly, I observed that his deep lines had grown deeper, 
his iron-grey hair more grey. There was the trace of recent 
suffering on his face ; and though he had not spoken to us a 
word of the business on which he had left us, it required no 
penetration to perceive that it had come to no successful issue. 

My uncle resumed — “ Time out of mind, every generation of 
our house has given one soldier to his country. I look round 
now : only one branch is budding yet on the old tree ; 
and ” 

“ Ah ! uncle. But what would they say ? Do you think I 
should not like to be a soldier ? Don’t tempt me ! ” 

My uncle had recourse to his snuff-box : and at that moment 
— unfortunately, perhaps, for the laurels that might otherwise 
have wreathed the brows of Pisistratus of England, — private 
conversation was stopped by the sudden and noisy entrance 
of Uncle Jack. No apparition could have been more un- 
expected. 

“ Here I am, my dear friends. How d’ye do — how are you 
all ? Captain de Caxton, yours heartily. Y es, I am released, 
thank Heaven ! I have given up the drudgery of that pitiful 
provincial paper. I was not made for it. An ocean in a tea- 
cup ! I was indeed ! Little, sordid, narrow interests — and I 


112 


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whose heart embraces all humanity. You might as well turn a 
circle into an isolated triangle.” 

u Isosceles ! ” said my father, sighing as he pushed aside his 
notes, and very slowly becoming aware of the eloquence that 
destroyed all chance of further progress that night in the Great 
Book. “ Isosceles triangle. Jack Tibbets — not isolated.” 

“ Isosceles or isolated, it is all one,” said Uncle Jack, as he 
rapidly performed three evolutions, by no means consistent with 
his favourite theory of “the greatest happiness of the greatest 
number”; — first, he emptied into the cup which he took from 
my mother’s hands half the thrifty contents of a London cream- 
jug ; secondly, he reduced the circle of a muffin, by the abstrac- 
tion of three triangles, to as nearly an isosceles as possible ; and 
thirdly, striding towards the fire, lighted in consideration of 
Captain de Caxton, and hooking his coat-tails under his arms, 
while he sipped his tea, he permitted another circle peculiar to 
humanity wholly to eclipse the luminary it approached. 

“ Isolated or isosceles, it is all the same thing. Man is made 
for his fellow-creatures. I had long been disgusted with the 
interference of those selfish Squirearchs. Your departure de- 
cided me. I have concluded negotiations with a London firm 
of spirit and capital, and extended views of philanthropy. On 
Saturday last I retired from the service of the oligarchy. I am 
now in my true capacity of protector of the million. My pro- 
spectus is printed — here it is in my pocket. — Another cup of 
tea, sister ; a little more cream, and another muffin. Shall I 
ring ? ” Having disembarrassed himself of his cup and saucer. 
Uncle Jack then drew forth from his pocket a damp sheet 
of printed paper. In large capitals stood out “ The Anti- 
Monopoly Gazette, or Popular Champion.” He waved it 
triumphantly before my father’s eyes. 

“ Pisistratus,” said my father, “ look here. This is the way 
your Uncle Jack now prints his pats of butter : a cap of liberty 
growing out of an open book ! Good, Jack ! good ! good ! ” 

“ It is Jacobinical ! ” exclaimed the Captain. 

“Very likely,” said my father; “but knowledge and freedom 
are the best devices in the world to print upon pats of butter 
intended for the market.” 

“ Pats of butter ! I don’t understand,” said Uncle Jack. 

“ The less you understand, the better will the butter sell, 
Jack,” said my father, settling back to his notes. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


113 


CHAPTER III 

TTNCLE JACK had made up his mind to lodge with us, and 
my mother found some difficulty in inducing him to com- 
prehend that there was no bed to spare. 

“ That’s unlucky/’ said he. " I had no sooner arrived in 
town than I was pestered with invitations ; but I refused them 
all, and kept myself for you.” 

“ So kind in you ! so like you ! ” said my mother ; " but you 
see ” 

"Well, then, I must be off and find a room. Don’t fret ; you 
know I can breakfast and dine with you all the same ; that is, 
when my other friends will let me. I shall be dreadfully 
persecuted.” So saying. Uncle Jack re-pocketed his prospectus, 
and wished us good-night. 

The clock had struck eleven ; my mother had retired ; when 
my father looked up from his books, and returned his spectacles 
to their case. I had finished my work, and was seated over 
the fire, thinking now of Fanny Trevanion’s hazel eyes — now, 
with a heart that beat as high at the thought of campaigns, 
battle-fields, laurels, and glory ; while, with his arms folded 
on his breast and his head drooping, Uncle Roland gazed into 
the low clear embers. My father cast his eyes round the room, 
and after surveying his brother for some moments, he said, 
almost in a whisper — 

" My son has seen the Trevanions. They remember us, 
Roland.” 

The Captain sprang to his feet, and began whistling — a habit 
with him when he was much disturbed. 

" And Trevanion wishes to see us. Pisistratus promised to 
give him our address ; shall he do so, Roland ? ” 

" If you like it,” answered the Captain, in a military attitude, 
and drawing himself up till he looked seven feet high. 

"I should like it,” said my father mildly. "Twenty years 
since we met.” 

" More than twenty,” said my uncle, with a stern smile ; 
" and the season was — the fall of the leaf ! ” 

" Man renews the fibre and material of his body every seven 
years,” said my father; "in three times seven years he has 
time to renew the inner man. Can two passengers in yonder 
street be more unlike each other than the soul is to the soul after 

H 


114 


THE CAXTONS : 


an interval of twenty years ? Brother, the plough does not pass 
over the soil in vain, nor care over the human heart. New 
crops change the character of the land ; and the plough must 
go deep indeed before it stirs up the mother stone.” 

" Let us see Trevanion,” cried my uncle ; then, turning to 
me, he said abruptly, " What family has he ? ” 

“One daughter.” 

" No son ? ” 

" No.” 

“ That must vex the poor foolish ambitious man. Oho ! you 
admire this Mr. Trevanion much, eh ? Yes, that fire of Manner, 
his fine words, and bold thoughts were made to dazzle youth.” 

" Fine words, my dear uncle ! — fire ! I should have said, 
in hearing Mr. Trevanion, that his style of conversation was 
so homely, you would wonder how he could have won such 
fame as a public speaker.” 

" Indeed ! ” 

"The plough has passed there,” said my father. 

" But not the plough of care : rich, famous, Ellinor his wife, 
and no son ! ” 

"It is because his heart is sometimes sad that he would 
see us.” 

Roland stared first at my father, next at me. "Then,” quoth 
my uncle heartily, " in God’s name, let him come. I can 
shake him by the hand, as I would a brother soldier. Poor 
Trevanion ! Write to him at once, Sisty.” 

I sat down and obeyed. When I had sealed my letter I 
looked up, and saw that Roland was lighting his bed-candle 
at my father’s table ; and my father, taking his hand, said 
something to him in a low voice. I guessed it related to his 
son, for he shook his head, and answered in a stern, hollow 
voice, " Renew grief if you please — not shame. On that sub- 
ject — silence ! ” 


CHAPTER IV 

T EFT to myself in the earlier part of the day, I wandered, 
wistful and lonely, through the vast wilderness of London. 
By degrees I familiarised myself with that populous solitude — I 
ceased to pine for the green fields. That active energy all 
around, at first saddening, became soon exhilarating, and at 
last contagious. To an industrious mind nothing is so catching 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


115 


as industry. I began to grow weary of my golden holiday of 
unlaborious childhood, to sigh for toil, to look around me for 
a career. The University, which I had before anticipated with 
pleasure, seemed now to fade into a dull monastic prospect ; 
after having trod the streets of London, to wander through 
cloisters was to go back in life. Day by day, my mind grew 
sensibly within me ; it came out from the rosy twilight of boy- 
hood — it felt the doom of Cain, under the broad sun of man. 

Uncle Jack soon became absorbed in his new speculation for 
the good of the human race, and, except at meals (whereat, 
to do him justice, he was punctual enough, though he did not 
keep us in ignorance of the sacrifices he made, and the invi- 
tations he refused, for our sake), we seldom saw him. The 
Captain, too, generally vanished after breakfast, seldom dined 
with us, and it was often late before he returned. He had the 
latch-key of the house, and let himself in when he pleased. 
Sometimes (for his chamber was next to mine) his step on the 
stairs awoke me ; and sometimes I heard him pace his room 
with perturbed strides, or fancied that I caught a low groan. 
He became every day more careworn in appearance, and every 
day the hair seemed more grey. Yet he talked to us all easily 
and cheerfully ; and I thought that I was the only one in the 
house who perceived the gnawing pangs over which the stout 
old Spartan drew the decorous cloak. 

Pity, blended with admiration, made me curious to learn how 
these absent days, that brought night so disturbed, were con- 
sumed. I felt that, if I could master the Captain's secret, I 
might win the right both to comfort and to aid. 

I resolved at length, after many conscientious scruples, to 
endeavour to satisfy a curiosity excused by its motives. 

Accordingly, one morning, after watching him from the house, 
I stole in his track, and followed him at a distance. 

And this was the outline of his day : he set off at first with 
a firm stride, despite his lameness — his gaunt figure erect, the 
soldierly chest well thrown out from the threadbare but speck- 
less coat. First he took his way towards the purlieus of 
Leicester Square ; several times, to and fro, did he pace the 
isthmus that leads from Piccadilly into that reservoir of 
foreigners, and the lanes and courts that start thence towards 
St. Martin’s. After an hour or two so passed, the step became 
more slow ; and often the sleek, napless hat was lifted up, and 
the brow wiped. At length he bent his way towards the two 
great theatres, paused before the play-bills, as if deliberating 


116 


THE CAXTONS : 


seriously on the chances of entertainment they severally 
proffered, wandered slowly through the small streets that sur- 
round those temples of the Muse, and finally emerged into the 
Strand. There he rested himself for an hour, at a small cook- 
shop ; and as I passed the window and glanced within, I could 
see him seated before the simple dinner, which he scarcely 
touched, and poring over the advertisement columns of the 
Times . The Times finished, and a few morsels distastefully 
swallowed, the Captain put down his shilling in silence, receiv- 
ing his pence in exchange, and I had just time to slip aside as 
he reappeared at the threshold. He looked round as he lingered, 
but I took care he should not detect me ; and then struck off 
towards the more fashionable quarters of the town. It was 
now the afternoon, and, though not yet the season, the streets 
swarmed with life. As he came into Waterloo Place, a slight 
but muscular figure buttoned up across the breast like his own, 
cantered by on a handsome bay horse ; every eye was on that 
figure. Uncle Roland stopped short, and lifted his hand to his 
hat ; the rider touched his own with his forefinger, and cantered 
on — Uncle Roland turned round and gazed. 

“Who,” I asked of a shop-boy just before me, also staring 
with all his eyes — “who is that gentleman on horseback?” 

“ Why, the Duke to be sure,” said the boy contemptuously. 

“The Duke?” 

“ Wellington — stu-pid ! ” 

“ Thank you,” said I meekly. Uncle Roland had moved on 
into Regent Street, but with a brisker step : the sight of the 
old chief had done the old soldier good. Here again he paced 
to and fro ; till I, watching him from the other side of the way, 
was ready to drop with fatigue, stout walker though I was. 
But the Captain’s day was not half done. He took out his 
watch, put it to his ear, and then, replacing it, passed into 
Bond Street, and thence into Hyde Park. There, evidently 
wearied out, he leant against the rails, near the bronze statue, 
in an attitude that spoke despondency. I seated myself on the 
grass near the statue, and gazed at him : the park was empty 
compared with the streets, but still there were some equestrian 
idlers, and many foot-loungers. My uncle’s eye turned wistfully 
on each : once or twice some gentlemen of a military aspect 
(which I had already learned to detect) stopped, looked at him, 
approached, and spoke ; but the Captain seemed as if ashamed 
of such greetings. He answered shortly, and turned again. 

The day waned — evening came on ; the Captain again looked 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


117 


at his watch, shook his head, and made his way to a bench, 
where he sat perfectly motionless — his hat over his brows, his 
arms folded ; till up rose the moon. I had tasted nothing since 
breakfast — I was famished ; but I still kept my post like an old 
Roman sentinel. 

At length the Captain rose, and re entered Piccadilly ; but 
how different his mien and bearing ! languid, stooping ; his 
chest sunk, his head inclined ; his limbs dragging one after the 
other ; his lameness painfully perceptible. What a contrast in 
the broken invalid at night from the stalwart veteran of the 
morning ! 

How I longed to spring forward to offer my arm ! but I did 
not dare. 

The Captain stopped near a cab-stand. He put his hand in 
his pocket — he drew out his purse — he passed his fingers over 
the net-work ; the purse slipped again into the pocket, and, as 
if with a heroic effort, my uncle drew up his head, and walked 
on sturdily. 

“ Where next ? ” thought I. “ Surely home ! No, he* is 
pitiless ! ” 

The Captain stopped not till he arrived at one of the small 
theatres in the Strand ; then he read the bill, and asked if half 
price was begun. “Just begun,” was the answer, and the Cap- 
tain entered. I also took a ticket and followed. Passing by 
the open doors of a refreshment-room, I fortified myself with 
some biscuits and soda-water ; and in another minute, for the 
first time in my life, I beheld a play. But the play did not 
fascinate me. It was the middle of some jocular afterpiece ; 
roars of laughter resounded round me. I could detect nothing 
to laugh at, and sending my keen eyes into every corner, I 
perceived at last, in the uppermost tier, one face as saturnine 
as my own. Eureka ! It was the Captain’s ! “ Why should he 

go to a play if he enjoys it so little ! ” thought I ; “ better have 
spent a shilling on a cab, poor old fellow ! ” 

But soon came smart-looking men, and still smarter-looking 
ladies, around the solitary corner of the poor Captain. He grew 
fidgety — he rose — he vanished. I left my place, and stood with- 
out the box to watch for him. Downstairs he stumped — I re- 
coiled into the shade ; and after standing a moment or two, as 
in doubt, he entered boldly the refreshment-room or saloon. 

Now, since I had left that saloon, it had become crowded, and 
I slipped in unobserved. Strange was it, grotesque yet pathetic, 
to mark the old soldier in the midst of that gay swarm. He 


118 


THE CAXTONS : 


towered above all like a Homeric hero, a head taller than the 
tallest ; and his appearance was so remarkable, that it invited 
the instant attention of the fair. I, in my simplicity, thought 
it was the natural tenderness of that amiable and penetrating 
sex, ever quick to detect trouble and anxious to relieve it, which 
induced three ladies, in silk attire — one having a hat and plume, 
the other two with a profusion of ringlets — to leave a little knot 
of gentlemen with whom they were conversing, and to plant 
themselves before my uncle. I advanced through the press to 
hear what passed. 

“ You are looking for some one. I’m sure,” quoth one familiarly, 
tapping his arm with her fan. 

The Captain started. “ Ma’am, you are not wrong,” said he. 

“ Can I do as well ? ” said one of those compassionate angels 
with heavenly sweetness. 

“You are very kind, I thank you; no, no, ma’am,” said the 
Captain with his best bow. 

“Do take a glass of negus,” said another, as her friend gave 
way to her. “ You seem tired, and so am I. Here, this way ; ” 
and she took hold of his arm to lead him to the table. The 
Captain shook his head mournfully; and then, as if suddenly 
aware of the nature of the attentions so lavished on him, he 
looked down upon these fair Armidas with a look of such mild 
reproach, such sweet compassion — not shaking off the hand, in 
his chivalrous devotion to the sex, which extended even to all 
its outcasts — that each bold eye fell abashed. The hand was 
timidly and involuntarily withdrawn from the arm, and my uncle 
passed his way. 

He threaded the crowd, passed out at the further door, and 
I, guessing his intention, was in waiting for his steps in the 
street. 

“ Now home at last, thank Heaven ! ” thought I. Mistaken 
still ! My uncle went first towards that popular haunt which I 
have since discovered is called “ the Shades ” ; but he soon re- 
emerged, and finally he knocked at the door of a private house 
in one of the streets out of St. James’s. It was opened jealously, 
and closed as he entered, leaving me without. What could this 
house be ! As I stood and watched, some other men approached, 
— again the low single knock, again the jealous opening, and 
the stealthy entrance. 

A policeman passed and repassed me. “Don’t be tempted, 
young man,” said he, looking hard at me ; “ take my advice, and 
go home.” 


A FAMILY PICTURE 119 

“ What is that house, then ? ” said I, with a sort of shudder at 
this ominous warning. 

“ Oh, you know.” 

“ Not I. I am new to London.” 

“ It is a hell,” said the policeman, satisfied, by my frank 
manner, that I spoke the truth. 

“ God bless me — a what ! I could not have heard you rightly ? ” 

“ A hell ; a gambling-house ! ” 

"Oh!” and I moved on. Could Captain Roland, the rigid, 
the thrifty, the penurious, be a gambler ? The light broke on 
me at once : the unhappy father sought his son ! I leant against 
the post, and tried hard not to sob. 

By-and-by I heard the door open : the Captain came out and 
took the way homeward. I ran on before, and got in first, to 
the inexpressible relief both of father and mother, who had not 
seen me since breakfast, and who were in equal consternation at 
my absence. I submitted to be scolded with a good grace. “ I 
had been sight-seeing, and lost my way ; ” begged for some 
supper, and slunk to bed ; and five minutes afterwards the 
Captain’s jaded step came wearily up the stairs. 






PART VI 


CHAPTER I 

T DON’T know that/’ said my father. 

What is it my father does not know ? My father does not 
know that “ happiness is our being’s end and aim.” 

And pertinent to what does my father reply, by words so 
sceptical, to an assertion so seldom disputed ? 

Reader, Mr. Trevanion has been half-an-hour seated in our 
little drawing-room. He has received two cups of tea from my 
mother’s fair hand ; he has made himself at home. With Mr. 
Trevanion has come another old friend of my father’s, ^vhom he 
has not seen since he left college — Sir Sedley Beaudesert. 

Now, you must understand that it is a warm night, a little 
after nine o’clock — a night between departing summer and 
approaching autumn. The windows are open — we have a 
balcony, which my mother has taken care to fill with flowers 
— the air, though we are in London, is sweet and fresh — 
the street quiet, except that an occasional carriage or hackney 
cabriolet rolls rapidly by — a few stealthy passengers pass to and 
fro noiselessly on their way homeward. We are on classic 
ground — near that old and venerable Museum, the dark mon- 
astic pile which the taste of the age had spared then — and the 
quiet of the temple seems to hallow the precincts. Captain 
Roland is seated by the fireplace, and, though there is no fire, 
he is shading his face with a hand-screen ; my father and Mr. 
Trevanion have drawn their chairs close to each other in the 
middle of the room ; Sir Sedley Beaudesert leans against the 
wall near the window, and behind my mother, who looks 
prettier and more pleased than usual, since her Austin has his 
old friends about him ; and I, leaning my elbow on the table, 
and my chin upon my hand, am gazing with great admiration 
on Sir Sedley Beaudesert. 

O rare specimen of a race fast decaying ! — specimen of the 
true fine gentleman, ere the word dandy was known, and before 

120 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


121 


exquisite became a noun substantive — let me here pause to 
describe thee ! Sir Sedley Beaudesert was the contemporary of 
Trevanion and my father ; but, without affecting to be young, 
he still seemed so. Dress, tone, look, manner — all were young 
■ — yet all had a certain dignity which does not belong to youth. 
At the age of five-and-twenty he had won what would have 
been fame to a French marquis of the old regime, viz., the reputa- 
tion of being “ the most charming man of his day ” — the most 
popular of our sex — the most favoured, my dear lady-reader, 
by yours. It is a mistake, I believe, to suppose that it does not 
require talent to become the fashion ; at all events. Sir Sedley 
was the fashion, and he had talent. He had travelled much, he 
had read much — especially in memoirs, history, and belles-lettres, 
— he made verses with grace and a certain originality of easy wit 
and courtly sentiment — he conversed delightfully, he was polished 
and urbane in manner — he was brave and honourable in conduct ; 
in words he could flatter — in deeds he was sincere. 

Sir Sedley Beaudesert had never married. Whatever his 
years, he was still young enough in looks to be married for love. 
He was high-born, he was rich ; he was, as I have said, popular ; 
yet on his fair features there was an expression of melancholy ; 
and on that forehead — pure from the lines of ambition, and free 
from the weight of study — there was the shadow of unmis- 
takable regret. 

“ I don’t know that,” said my father ; “ I have never yet 
found in life one man who made happiness his end and aim. 
One wants to gain a fortune, another to spend it — one to get a 
place, another to build a name; but they all know very well 
that it is not happiness they search for. No Utilitarian was 
ever actuated by self-interest, poor man, when he sat down 
to scribble his unpopular crotchets to prove self-interest uni- 
versal. And as to that notable distinction — between self-interest 
vulgar and self-interest enlightened — the more the self-interest 
is enlightened, the less we are influenced by it. If you tell the 
young man who has just written a fine book or made a fine 
speech, that he will not be any happier if he attain to the fame 
of Milton or the power of Pitt, and that, for the sake of his 
own happiness, he had much better cultivate a farm, live in 
the country, and postpone to the last the days of dyspepsia and 
gout, he will answer you fairly — f I am quite as sensible of that 
as you are. But I am not thinking whether or not I shall be 
happy. I have made up my mind to be, if I can, a great author 
or a prime minister.’ So it is with all the active sons of the 


122 


THE CAXTONS : 


world. To push on is the law of nature. And you can no more 
say to men and to nations than to children, ‘ Sit still, and don’t 
wear out your shoes ! ’ ” 

“Then,” said Trevanion, “if I tell you I am not happy, your 
only answer is, that I obey an inevitable law.” 

“ No ! 1 don’t say that it is an inevitable law that man should 
not be happy ; but it is an inevitable law that a man, in spite 
of himself, should live for something higher than his own happi- 
ness. He cannot live in himself or for himself, however egotis- 
tical he may try to be. Every desire he has links him with 
others. Man is not a machine — he is a part of one.” 

“True, brother, he is a soldier, not an army,” said Captain 
Roland. 

“ Life is a drama, not a monologue,” pursued my father. 
“ Drama is derived from a Greek verb, signifying to do. Every 
actor in the drama has something to do, which helps on the 
progress of the whole : that is the object for which the author 
created him. Do your part, and let the Great Play get on.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Trevanion briskly, “ but to do the part is the 
difficulty ! Every actor helps to the catastrophe, and yet must 
do his part without knowing how all is to end. Shall he help 
the curtain to fall on a tragedy or a comedy ? Come, I will tell 
you the one secret of my public life — that which explains all 
its failure (for, in spite of my position, I have failed), and its 
regrets — I want conviction ! ” 

“ Exactly,” said my father ; “ because to every question there 
are two sides, and you look at them both.” 

“ You have said it,” answered Trevanion, smiling also. “ For 
public life a man should be one-sided; he must act with a 
party ; and a party insists that the shield is silver when, if it 
will take the trouble to turn the corner, it will see that the 
reverse of the shield is gold. Woe to the man who makes that 
discovery alone, while his party are still swearing the shield is 
silver, and that not once in his life, but every night ! ” 

“ You have said quite enough to convince me that you ought 
not to belong to a party, but not enough to convince me why 
you should not be happy,” said my father. 

“ Do you remember,” said Sir Sedley Beaudesert, “an anecdote 
of the first Duke of Portland ? He had a gallery in the great 
stable of his villa in Holland, where a concert was given once a 
week, to cheer and amuse his horses ! I have no doubt the horses 
thrived all the better for it. What Trevanion wants is a concert 
once a week. With him it is always saddle and spur. Yet, 


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after all, who would not envy him ? If life be a drama, his 
name stands high in the play-bill, and is printed in capitals on 
the walls/’ 

“ Envy me ! ” cried Trevanion — “ me ! — no, you are the envi- 
able man — you who have only one grief in the world, and that 
so absurd a one, that I will make you blush by disclosing it. 
Hear, O sage Austin! — O sturdy Roland ! — Olivares was 
haunted by a spectre, and Sedley Beaudesert by the dread of 
old age ! ” 

“ Well,” said my mother seriously, “ I do think it requires a 
great sense of religion, or, at all events, children of one’s own, 
in whom one is young again, to reconcile oneself to becom- 
ing old.” 

“ My dear ma’am,” said Sir Sedley, who had slightly coloured 
at Trevanion’s charge, but had now recovered his easy self- 
possession, “you have spoken so admirably that you give me 
courage to confess my weakness. I do dread to be old. All 
the joys of my life have been the joys of youth. I have had so 
exquisite a pleasure in the mere sense of living, that old age, as 
it comes near, terrifies me by its dull eyes and grey hairs. I 
have lived the life of a butterfly. Summer is over, and I see my 
flowers withering; and my wings are chilled by the first airs of 
winter. Yes, I envy Trevanion; for, in public life, no man is 
ever young ; and while he can work, he is never old.” 

“ My dear Beaudesert,” said my father, “ when St. Amable, 
patron saint of Riom, in Auvergne, went to Rome, the sun 
waited upon him as a servant, carried his cloak and gloves for 
him in the heat, and kept off the rain, if the weather changed, 
like an umbrella. You want to put the sun to the same use ; 
you are quite right ; but then, you see, you must first be a saint 
before you can be sure of the sun as a servant.” 

Sir Sedley smiled charmingly ; but the smile changed to a 
sigh as he added, “ I don’t think I should much mind being a 
saint, if the sun would be my sentinel instead of my courier. I 
want nothing of him but to stand still. You see he moved 
even for St. Amable. My dear madam, you and I understand 
each other; and it is a very hard thing to grow old, do what 
one will to keep young.” 

“ What say you, Roland, of these two malcontents ? ” asked 
my father. The Captain turned uneasily in his chair, for the 
rheumatism was gnawing his shoulder, and sharp pains w’ere 
shooting through his mutilated limb. 

“ I say,” answered Roland, “ that these men are wearied with 


124 


THE CAXTONS : 


marching from Brentford to Windsor — that they have never 
known the bivouac and the battle.” 

Both the grumblers turned their eyes to the veteran : the 
eyes rested first on the furrowed, careworn lines in his eagle 
face — then they fell on the stiff outstretched cork limb— and 
then they turned away. 

Meanwhile my mother had softly risen, and under pretence 
of looking for her work on the table near him, bent over the 
old soldier and pressed his hand. 

“ Gentlemen,” said my father, “ I don’t think my brother 
ever heard of Nichocorus, the Greek comic writer ; yet he has 
illustrated him very ably. Saith Nichocorus, ‘the best cure 
for drunkenness is a sudden calamity.’ For chronic drunken- 
ness, a continued course of real misfortune must be very salu- 
tary ! ” 

No answer came from the two complainants ; and my 
father took up a great book. 


CHAPTER II 

JV/TY friends,” said my father, looking up from his book and 
addressing himself to his two visitors, “ I know of one 
thing, milder than calamity, that would do you both a great deal 
of good.” 

“ What is that ? ” asked Sir Sedley. 

“ A saffron bag, worn at the pit of the stomach ! ” 

“ Austin, my dear,” said my mother reprovingly. 

My father did not heed the interruption, but continued 
gravely — “ Nothing is better for the spirits ! Roland is in no 
want of saffron, because he is a warrior ; and the desire of fight- 
ing, and the hope of victory, infuse such a heat into the spirits 
as is profitable for long life, and keeps up the system.” 

" Tut ! ” said Trevanion. 

“ But gentlemen in your predicament must have recourse to 
artificial means. Nitre in broth, for instance — about three grains 
to ten — (cattle fed upon nitre grow fat) ; or earthy odours — 
such as exist in cucumbers and cabbage. A certain great 
lord had a clod of fresh earth, laid in a napkin, put under his 
nose every morning after sleep. Light anointing of the head 
with oil, mixed with roses and salt, is not bad ; but, upon the 
whole, I prescribe the saffron bag at the ” 


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125 


“ Sisty, my dear, will you look for my scissors ? ” said my 
mother. 

“ What nonsense are you talking ! Question ! question ! ” cried 
Mr. Trevanion. 

“Nonsense!” exclaimed my father, opening his eyes. “I 
am givingyou the advice of Lord Bacon. You want conviction 
— conviction comes from passion — passion from the spirits — 
spirits from a saffron bag. You, Beaudesert, on the other hand, 
want to keep youth. He keeps youth longest who lives longest. 
Nothing more conduces to longevity than a saffron bag, pro- 
vided always it is worn at the ” 

“ Sisty, my thimble ! ” said my mother. 

“You laugh at us justly,” said Beaudesert, smiling; “and 
the same remedy, I dare say, would cure us both.” 

“ Yes,” said my father, “ there is no doubt of that. In the 
pit of the stomach is that great central web of nerves called 
the ganglions ; thence they affect the head and the heart. Mr. 
Squills proved that to us, Sisty.” 

“Yes,” said I ; “ but I never heard Mr. Squills talk of a saffron 
bag.” 

“ Oh, foolish boy ! it is not the saffron bag — it is the belief 
in the saffron bag. Apply belief to the centre of the nerves, 
and all will go well,” said my father. 


CHAPTER III 

T>UT it is a devil of a thing to have too nice a conscience ! ” 
^ quoth the member of Parliament. 

“ And it is not an angel of a thing to lose one’s front teeth ! ” 
sighed the fine gentleman. 

Therewith my father rose, and putting his hand into his 
waistcoat, more suo, delivered his famous 

SERMON UPON THE CONNECTION BETWEEN FAITH AND PURPOSE. 

Famous it was in our domestic circle. But, as yet, it has not 
gone beyond. And since the reader, I am sure, does not turn 
to the Caxton Memoirs with the expectation of finding sermons, 
so to that circle let its fame be circumscribed. All I shall say 
about it is, that it was a very fine sermon, and that it proved in- 
disputably, to me at least, the salubrious effects of a saffron bag 


126 


THE CAXTONS: 


applied to the great centre of the nervous system. But the wise Ali 
saith, that “a fool doth not know what maketh him look little, 
neither will he hearken to him that adviseth him.” I cannot 
assert that my father’s friends were fools, but they certainly 
came under this definition of Folly. 


CHAPTER IV 

T^OR therewith arose, not conviction, but discussion ; Tre- 
vanion was logical, Beaudesert sentimental. My father held 
firm to the saffron bag. When James the First dedicated to 
the Duke of Buckingham his meditation on the Lord’s Prayer, 
he gave a very sensible reason for selecting his Grace for that 
honour; “ For,” saith the king, “ it is made upon a very short 
and plain prayer, and, therefore, the fitter for a courtier, for 
courtiers are for the most part thought neither to have lust nor 
leisure to say long prayers ; liking best courte messe et long disner .” 
I suppose it was for a similar reason that my father persisted 
in dedicating to the member of Parliament and the fine gentle- 
man this “ short and plaine ” morality of his — to wit, the saffron 
bag. He was evidently persuaded, if he could once get them 
to apply that, it was all that was needful ; that they had neither 
lust nor leisure for longer instructions. And this saffron bag, — 
it came down with such a whack, at every round in the argu- 
ment ! You would have thought my father one of the old 
plebeian combatants in the popular ordeal, who, forbidden to 
use sword and lance, fought with a sand-bag tied to a flail : 
a very stunning weapon it was when filled only with sand ; 
but a bag filled with saffron, — it was irresistible ! Though my 
father had two to one against him, they could not stand such 
a deuce of a weapon. And after tuts and pishes innumerable 
from Mr. Trevanion, and sundry bland grimaces from Sir Sedley 
Beaudesert, they fairly gave in, though they would not own they 
were beaten. 

“ Enough,” said the member, “ I see that you don’t compre- 
hend me ; I must continue to move by my own impulse.” 

My father’s pet book was the Colloquies of Erasmus ; he was 
wont to say that those Colloquies furnished life with illustra- 
tions in every page. Out of the Colloquies of Erasmus he now 
answered the member — 

“Rabirius, wanting his servant Syrus to get up,” quoth my 


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127 


father, “ cried out to him to move. ‘ I do move/ said Syrus. 
‘I see you move/ replied Rabirius, f but you move nothing .’ To 
return to the saffron bag ” 

“ Confound the saffron bag ! ” cried Trevanion in a rage ; 
and then softening his look as he drew on his gloves, he turned 
to my mother, and said, with more politeness than was natural 
to, or at least customary with him — 

“ By the way, my dear Mrs. Caxton, I should tell you that 
Lady Ellinor comes to town to-morrow, on purpose to call on 
you. We shall be here some little time, Austin ; and though 
London is so empty, there are still some persons of note to 
whom I should like to introduce you and yours ” 

“Nay,” said my father; “your world and my world are not 
the same. Books for me, and men for you. Neither Kitty nor 
I can change our habits, even for friendship ; she has a great 
piece of work to finish, and so have I. Mountains cannot stir, 
especially when in labour ; but Mahomet can come to the 
mountain as often as he likes.” 

Mr. Trevanion insisted, and Sir Sedley Beaudesert mildly put 
in his own claims ; both boasted acquaintance with literary men, 
whom my father would, at all events, be pleased to meet. My 
father doubted whether he could meet any literary men more 
eloquent than Cicero, or more amusing than Aristophanes ; 
and observed, that if such did exist, he would rather meet 
them in their books than in a drawing-room. In fine, he was 
immovable ; and so also, with less argument, was Captain 
Roland. 

Then Mr. Trevanion turned to me. 

“Your son, at all events, should see something of the world.” 

My mother’s soft eye sparkled. 

“ My dear friend, I thank you,” said my father, touched ; 
“ and Pisistratus and I will talk it over.” 

Our guests had departed. All four of us gathered to the 
open window, and enjoyed in silence the cool air and the 
moonlight. 

“ Austin,” said my mother at last, “ I fear it is for my sake 
that you refuse going amongst your old friends: you knew I 
should be frightened by such fine people, and ” 

“And we have been happy for more than eighteen years 
without them, Kitty ! My poor friends are not happy, and 
we are. To leave well alone is a golden rule worth all in 
Pythagoras. The ladies of Bubastis, my dear, a place in Egypt 
where the cat was worshipped, always kept rigidly aloof from 


12 8 


THE CAXTONS : 


the gentlemen in Athribis, who adored the shrew-mice. Cats 
are domestic animals, — your shrew-mice are sad gadabouts : 
you can’t find a better model, my Kitty, than the ladies of 
Bubastis ! ” 

“How Trevanion is altered!” said Roland musingly — “he 
who was so lively and ardent ! ” 

“ He ran too fast uphill at first, and has been out of breath 
ever since,” said my father. 

“And Lady Ellinor,” said Roland hesitatingly, “shall you 
see her to-morrow ? ” 

“ Yes ! ” said my father calmly. 

As Captain Roland spoke, something in the tone of his 
question seemed to flash a conviction on my mother’s heart, — 
the woman there was quick : she drew back, turning pale, even 
in the moonlight, and fixed her eyes on my father, while I felt 
her hand which had clasped mine tremble convulsively. 

I understood her. Yes, this Lady Ellinor was the early rival 
whose name till then she had not known. She fixed her eyes on 
my father, and at his tranquil tone and quiet look she breathed 
more freely, and, sliding her hand from mine, rested it fondly 
on his shoulder. A few moments afterwards, I and Captain 
Roland found ourselves standing alone by the window. 

“You are young, nephew,” said the Captain ; “and you have 
the name of a fallen family to raise. Your father does well 
not to reject for you that opening into the great world which 
Trevanion offers. As for me, my business in London seems 
over : I cannot find what I came to seek. I have sent for my 
daughter ; when she arrives I shall return to my old tower ; and 
the man and the ruin will crumble away together.” 

“Tush, uncle ! I must work hard and get money; and then 
we will repair the old tower, and buy back the old estate. My 
father shall sell the red brick house ; we will fit him up a library 
in the keep ; and we will all live united, in peace, and in state, 
as grand as our ancestors before us.” 

While I thus spoke my uncle’s eyes were fixed upon a corner 
of the street, where a figure, half in shade, half in moonlight, 
stood motionless. “ Ah ! ” said I, following his eye, “ I have 
observed that man, two or three times, pass up and down the 
street on the other side of the way, and turn his head towards 
our window. Our guests were with us then, and my father in 
full discourse, or I should have ” 

Before I could finish the sentence, my uncle, stifling an ex- 
clamation, broke away, hurried out of the room, stumped down 


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129 


the stairs, and was in the street, while I was yet rooted to the 
spot with surprise. I remained at the window, and my eye 
rested on the figure. I saw the Captain, with his bare head 
and his grey hair, cross the street; the figure started, turned 
the corner, and fled. 

Then I followed my uncle, and arrived in time to save him 
from falling : he leant his head on my breast, and I heard him 
murmur , — “ It is he — it is he ! He has watched us ! — he 
repents ! ” 


CHAPTER V 

rpHE next day Lady Ellinor called; but, to my great dis- 
appointment, without Fanny. 

Whether or not some joy at the incident of the previous night 
had served to rejuvenate my uncle, I know not, but he looked 
to me ten years younger when Lady Ellinor entered. How 
carefully the buttoned-up coat was brushed ! how new and 
glossy was the black stock ! The poor Captain was restored to 
his pride, and mighty proud he looked ! With a glow on his 
cheek, and a fire in his eye ; his head thrown back, and his 
whole air composed, severe, Mavortian, and majestic, as if 
awaiting the charge of the French cuirassiers at the head of his 
detachment. 

My father, on the contrary, was as usual (till dinner, when he 
always dressed punctiliously, out of respect to his Kitty) in his 
easy morning gown and slippers ; and nothing but a certain 
compression in his lips, which had lasted all the morning, 
evinced his anticipation of the visit, or the emotion it caused 
him. 

Lady Ellinor behaved beautifully. She could not conceal a 
certain nervous trepidation, when she first took the hand my 
father extended ; and, in touching rebuke of the Captain’s 
stately bow, she held out to him the hand left disengaged, with 
a look which brought Roland at once to her side. It was a 
desertion of his colours to which nothing, short of Ney’s shame- 
ful conduct at Napoleon’s return from Elba, affords a parallel in 
history. Then, without waiting for introduction, and before a 
word indeed was said. Lady Ellinor came to my mother so 
cordially, so caressingly — she threw into her smile, voice, 
manner, such winning sweetness, that I, intimately learned in 
my poor mother’s simple loving heart, wondered how she re- 

i 


130 


THE CAXTONS : 


frained from throwing her arms round Lady Ellinor’ s neck and 
kissing her outright. It must have been a great conquest over 
herself not to do it ! My turn came next ; and talking to me, 
and about me, soon set all parties at their ease — at least 
apparently. 

What was said I cannot remember ; I do not think one of us 
could. But an hour slipped away, and there was no gap in the 
conversation. 

With curious interest, and a survey I strove to make impartial, 
I compared Lady Ellinor with my mother. And I compre- 
hended the fascination which the high-born lady must, in their 
earlier youth, have exercised over both brothers, so dissimilar to 
each other. For charm was the characteristic of Lady Ellinor — - 
a charm indefinable. It was not the mere grace of refined 
breeding, though that went a great way : it was a charm that 
seemed to spring from natural sympathy. Whomsoever she 
addressed, that person appeared for the moment to engage all 
her attention, to interest her whole mind. She had a gift of 
conversation very peculiar. She made what she said like a con- 
tinuation of what was said to her. She seemed as if she had 
entered into your thoughts, and talked them aloud. Her mind 
was evidently cultivated with great care, but she was perfectly 
void of pedantry. A hint, an allusion, sufficed to show how 
much she knew, to one well instructed, without mortifying or 
perplexing the ignorant. Yes, there probably was the only 
woman my father had ever met who could be the companion to 
his mind, walk through the garden of knowledge by his side, 
and trim the flowers while he cleared the vistas. On the other 
hand, there was an inborn nobility in Lady Ellinor’ s sentiments 
that must have struck the most susceptible chord in Roland’s 
nature, and the sentiments took eloquence from the look, the 
mien, the sweet dignity of the very turn of the head. Yes, she 
must have been a fitting Oriana to a young Amadis. It was 
not hard to see that Lady Ellinor was ambitious — that she had 
a love of fame, for fame itself — that she was proud — that she 
set value (and that morbidly) on the world’s opinion. This was 
perceptible when she spoke of her husband, even of her 
daughter. It seemed to me as if she valued the intellect of 
the one, the beauty of the other, by the gauge of the social 
distinction it conferred. She took measure of the gift, as 
I was taught at Dr. Herman’s to take measure of the height 
of a tower — by the length of the shadow it cast upon the 
ground. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


131 


My dear father ! with such a wife you would never have lived 
eighteen years, shivering on the edge of a Great Book. 

My dear uncle, with such a wife you would never have been 
contented with a cork leg and a Waterloo medal ! And I 
understand why Mr. Trevanion, “ eager and ardent” as ye say 
he was in youth, with a heart bent on the practical success of 
life, won the hand of the heiress. Well, you see Mr. Trevanion 
has contrived not to be happy ! By the side of my listening, 
admiring mother, with her blue eyes moist, and her coral lips 
apart, Lady Ellinor looks faded. Was she ever as pretty as my 
mother is now? Never. But she was much handsomer. What 
delicacy in the outline, and yet how decided in spite of the 
delicacy ! The eyebrow so defined — the profile slightly aquiline, 
so clearly cut — with the curved nostril, which, if physiognomists 
are right, shows sensibility so keen ; and the classic lip, that, 
but for the neighbouring dimple, would be so haughty. But 
wear and tear are in that face. The nervous excitable temper 
has helped the fret and cark of ambitious life. My dear uncle, 
I know not yet your private life. But as for my father, I am 
sure that, though he might have done more on earth, he would 
have been less fit for heaven if he had married Lady Ellinor. 

At last this visit — dreaded, I am sure, by three of the party, 
was over, but not before I had promised to dine at the Trevanions’ 
that day. 

When we were again alone, my father threw off a long breath, 
and, looking round him cheerfully, said, “ Since Pisistratus deserts 
us, let us console ourselves for his absence — send for brother 
Jack, and all four go down to Richmond to drink tea.” 

“ Thank you, Austin,” said Roland; “but I don’t want it, I 
assure you ! ” 

“ Upon your honour ? ” said my father in a half-whisper. 

“ Upon my honour.” 

“ Nor I either. So, my dear Kitty, Roland and I will take a 
walk, and be back in time to see if that young Anachronism 
looks as handsome as his new London-made clothes will allow 
him. Properly speaking, he ought to go with an apple in his 
hand, and a dove in his bosom. But now I think of it, that 
was luckily not the fashion with the Athenians till the time of 
Alcibiades ! ” 


132 


THE CAXTONS : 


CHAPTER VI 

T^OU may judge of the effect that my dinner at Mr. Trevanion’s, 
with a long conversation after it with Lady Ellinor, made 
upon my mind, when, on my return home, after having satisfied 
all questions of parental curiosity, I said nervously, and looking 
down, — “ My dear father, — I should like very much, if you 
have no objection — to — to ” 

“ What, my dear ? ” asked my father kindly. 

“ Accept an offer Lady Ellinor has made me, on the part of 
Mr. Trevanion. He wants a secretary. He is kind enough to 
excuse my inexperience, and declares I shall do very well, and 
can soon get into his ways. Lady Ellinor says (I continued with 
dignity) that it will be a great opening in public life for me ; 
and at all events, my dear father, I shall see much of the world, 
and learn what I really think will be more useful to me than 
anything they will teach me at college/’ 

My mother look anxiously at my father. “ It will indeed be 
a great thing for Sisty,” said she timidly ; and then, taking 
courage, she added — “and that is just the sort of life he is 
formed for.” 

“ Hem ! ” said my uncle. 

My father rubbed his spectacles thoughtfully, and replied, 
after a long pause — 

“ You may be right, Kitty : I don’t think Pisistratus is meant 
for study ; action will suit him better. But what does this 
office lead to ? ” 

" Public employment, sir,” said I boldly ; “ the service of my 
country.” 

“If that be the case,” quoth Roland, “I have not a word to 
say. But I should have thought that for a lad of spirit, a 
descendant of the old De Caxtons, the army would have ” 

“ The army ! ” exclaimed my mother, clasping her hands, and 
looking involuntarily at my uncle’s cork leg. 

“ The army ! ” repeated my father peevishly. “ Bless my soul, 
Roland, you seem to think man is made for nothing else but to 
be shot at ! You would not like the army, Pisistratus ? ” 

“ Why, sir, not if it pained you and my dear mother ; other- 
wise, indeed ” 

“ Papse ! ” said my father, interrupting me. “ This all comes 
of your giving the boy that ambitious, uncomfortable name. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


133 


Mrs. Caxton ; what could a Pisistratus be but the plague of 
one’s life ? That idea of serving his country is Pisistratus 
ipsissimus all over. If ever I have another son (Dm meliora /) he 
has only got to be called Eratostratus, and then he will be burn- 
ing down St. Paul’s ; which I believe was, by the way, first made 
out of the stones of a temple to Diana ! Of the two, certainly, 
you had better serve your country with a goose-quill than by 
poking a bayonet into the ribs of some unfortunate Indian ; I 
don’t think there are any other people whom the service of 
one’s country makes it necessary to kill just at present,— eh, 
Roland ? ” 

“ It is a very fine field, India,” said my uncle sententiously ; 
“it is the nursery of captains.” 

“ Is it ? Those plants take up a great deal of ground, then, 
that might be more profitably cultivated. And, indeed, con- 
sidering that the tallest captains in the world will be ultimately 
set into a box not above seven feet at the longest, it is astonish- 
ing what a quantity of room that species of arbor mortis takes in 
the growing ! However, Pisistratus, to return to your request, 
I will think it over, and talk to Trevanion.” 

“ Or rather Lady Ellinor,” said I imprudently ; my mother 
slightly shivered, and took her hand from mine. I felt cut to 
the heart by the slip of my own tongue. 

“That, I think, your mother could do best,” said my father 
dryly, “if she wants to be quite convinced that somebody will 
see that your shirts are aired. For I suppose they mean you to 
lodge at Trevanion’s.” 

“ Oh, no ! ” cried my mother ; “ he might as well go to 
college then. I thought he was to stay with us ; only go in the 
morning, blit, of course, sleep here.” 

“ If I know anything of Trevanion,” said my father, “ his 
secretary will be expected to do without sleep. Poor boy ! you 
don’t know what it is you desire. And yet, at your age, 1 ” — 
my father stopped short. “No !” he renewed abruptly after a 
long silence, and as if soliloquising — “ No : man is never wrong 
while he lives for others. The philosopher who contemplates 
from the rock is a less noble image than the sailor who struggles 
with the storm. Why should there be two of us ? And could 
he be an alter ego , even if I wished it ? Impossible ! ” My 
father turned on his chair, and laying the left leg on the right 
knee, said smilingly, as he bent down to look me full in the 
face — “But, Pisistratus, will you promise me always to wear the 
saffron bag ? ” 


134 


THE CAXTONS: 


CHAPTER VII 

T NOW make a long stride in my narrative. I am domesti- 
cated with the Trevanions. A very short conversation with 
the statesman sufficed to decide my father ; and the pith of it lay 
in this single sentence uttered by Trevanion — “ I promise you 
one thing — he shall never be idle ! ” 

Looking back, I am convinced that my father was right, and 
that he understood my character, and the temptations to which 
I was most prone, when he consented to let me resign college 
and enter thus prematurely on the world of men. I was natu- 
rally so joyous, that I should have made college life a holiday, 
and then, in repentance, worked myself into a phthisis. 

And my father, too, was right, that, though I could study, I 
was not meant for a student. 

After all, the thing was an experiment. I had time to spare : 
if the experiment failed, a year’s delay would not necessarily be 
a year’s loss. 

I am ensconced, then, at Mr. Trevanion’s. I have been 
there some months — it is late in the winter ; Parliament and 
the season have commenced. I work hard — Heaven knows, 
harder than I should have worked at college. Take a day for 
sample. 

Trevanion gets up at eight o’clock, and in all weathers rides 
an hour before breakfast ; at nine he takes that meal in his 
wife’s dressing-room ; at half-past nine he comes into his study. 
By that time he expects to find done by his secretary the work 
I am about to describe. 

On coming home, or rather before going to bed, which is 
usually after three o’clock, it is Mr. Trevanion’s habit to leave 
on the table of the said study a list of directions for the 
secretary. The following, which I take at random from many 
I have preserved, may show r their multifarious nature : — 

1. Look out in the Reports (Committee House of Lords) for the last 
seven years — all that is said about the growth of flax — mark the 
passages for me. 

2. Do. do. — “Irish Emigration.” 

3. Hunt out second volume of Karnes’s History of Man, passage 
containing “ Reid’s Logic ” — don’t know where the book is ! 

4. How does the line beginning “Lumina eonjurent, inter” some- 
thing, end ? Is it in Grey ? See. 

5. Fracastorius writes— “ Quantum hoc infecit vitium, quot adiverit 




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cAt four, 'cfianny puts her head into 
the room , — and z? h 


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A FAMILY PICTURE 


135 


urbes.” Query, ought it not, in strict grammar, to b e—infecerit in- 
stead of infecit ? — if you don’t know, write to father. 

6. Write the four letters in full from the notes I leave, i.e., about the 
Ecclesiastical Courts. 

7. Look out Population Returns — strike average of last five years 
(between mortality and births) in Devonshire and Lancashire. 

8. Answer these six begging letters, “ No ” — civilly. 

9. The other six, to constituents — “ that I have * no interest with 
Government.” 

10. See, if you have time, whether any of the new books on the 
round table are not trash. 

11. I want to know all about Indian corn. 

12. Longinus says something, somewhere, in regret for uncongenial 
pursuits (public life, I suppose) — what is it? N.B. Longinus is not in 
my London catalogue, but is here, I know — I think in a box in the 
lumber-room. 

13. Set right the calculation I leave on the poor-rates. I have 
made a blunder somewhere. &c. &c. 

Certainly my father knew Mr. Trevanion ; he never expected 
a secretary to sleep ! To get through the work required of me 
by half-past nine, I get up by candle-light. At half-past nine 
I am still hunting for Longinus, when Mr. Trevanion comes in 
with a bundle of letters. 

Answers to half the said letters fall to my share. Directions 
verbal — in a species of short-hand talk. While I write, Mr. 
Trevanion reads the newspapers — examines what I have done — 
makes notes therefrom, some for Parliament, some for conver- 
sation, some for correspondence — skims over the Parliamentary 
papers of the morning — and jots down directions for extracting, 
abridging, and comparing them with others, perhaps twenty 
years old. At eleven he walks down to a Committee of the 
House of Commons — leaving me plenty to do — till half-past 
three, when he returns. At four, Fanny puts her head into the 
room — and I lose mine. Four days in the week Mr. Trevanion 
then disappears for the rest of the day — dines at Bellamy’s or 
a club — expects me at the House at eight o’clock, in case he 
thinks of something, wants a fact or a quotation. He then 
releases me — generally with a fresh list of instructions. But I 
have my holidays, nevertheless. On Wednesdays and Saturdays 
Mr. Trevanion gives dinners, and I meet the most eminent men 
of the day — on both sides. For Trevanion is on both sides him- 
self — or no side at all, which comes to the same thing. On 
Tuesdays, Lady Ellinor gives me a ticket for the Opera, and I 
get there at least in time for the ballet. I have already invita- 


136 


THE CAXTONS : 


tions enough to balls and soirees, for I am regarded as an only 
son of great expectations. I am treated as becomes a Caxton 
who has the right, if he pleases, to put a De before his name. 
I have grown very smart. I have taken a passion for dress — 
natural to eighteen. I like everything I do, and every one 
about me. I am over head and ears in love with Fanny 
Trevanion — who breaks my heart, nevertheless ; for she flirts 
with two peers, a life-guardsman, three old members of Parlia- 
ment, Sir Sedley Beaudesert, one ambassador, and all his attaches, 
and, positively (the audacious minx !) with a bishop, in full wig 
and apron, who, people say, means to marry again. 

Pisistratus has lost colour and flesh. His mother says he is 
very much improved , — that he takes to be the natural effect 
produced by Stultz and Hoby. Uncle Jack says he is “ fined 
down.” 

His father looks at him and writes to Trevanion — 

“ Dear T. — I refused a salary for my son. Give him a horse, 
and two hours a day to ride it. Yours, A. C.” 

The next day I am master of a pretty bay mare, and riding by 
the side of Fanny Trevanion. Alas ! alas ! 


CHAPTER VIII 

T HAVE not mentioned my Uncle Roland. He is gone — 
abroad — to fetch his daughter. He has stayed longer than 
was expected. Does he seek his son still — there as here ? My 
father has finished the first portion of his work, in two great 
volumes. Uncle Jack, who for some time has been looking 
melancholy, and who now seldom stirs out, except on Sundays 

(on which days we all meet at my fathers and dine together) 

Uncle Jack, I say, has undertaken to sell it. 

“ Don’t be over sanguine,” says Uncle Jack, as he locks up 
the MS. in two red boxes with a slit in the lids, which belonged 
to one of the defunct companies. “ Don’t be over sanguine as 
to the price. These publishers never venture much on a first 
experiment. They must be talked even into looking at the 
book.” 

“Oh !” said my father, “if they will publish it at all, and at 
their own risk, I should not stand out for any other terms. 
‘ Nothing great,’ said Dryden, f ever came from a venal pen ! ’ ” 


A FAMILY PICTURE 137 

“ An uncommonly foolish observation of Dryden’s,” returned 
Uncle Jack; “ he ought to have known better.” 

“So he did,” said I, “for he used his pen to fill his pockets — 
poor man ! ” 

“ But the pen was not venal, master Anachronism,” said my 
father. “A baker is not to be called venal if he sells his loaves 
— he is venal if he sells himself : Dryden only sold his loaves.” 

“ And we must sell yours,” said Uncle Jack emphatically. 
“ A thousand pounds a volume will be about the mark, eh ? ” 

“A thousand pounds a volume ! ” cried my father. “ Gibbon, 
I fancy, did not receive more.” 

“Very likely; Gibbon had not an Uncle Jack to look after 
his interests,” said Mr. Tibbets, laughing and rubbing those 
smooth hands of his. “ No ! two thousand pounds the two 
volumes ! a sacrifice, but still I recommend moderation.” 

“ I should be happy, indeed, if the book brought in anything,” 
said my father, evidently fascinated ; “ for that young gentleman 
is rather expensive ; and you, my dear Jack ; — perhaps half the 
sum may be of use to you ! ” 

“ To me ! my dear brother,” cried Uncle Jack — “ to me ! 
why, when my new speculation has succeeded, I shall be a 
millionaire ! ” 

“ Have you a new speculation, uncle ? ” said I anxiously. 
“ What is it ? ” 

“Mum!” said my uncle, putting his finger to his lip, and 
looking all round the room — “ Mum ! ! Mum ! ! ” 

Pisistrattis. — “A Grand National Company for blowing up 
both Houses of Parliament ! ” 

Mr. Caxton. — “Upon my life, I hope something newer than 
that ; for they, to judge by the newspapers, don’t want Brother 
Jack’s assistance to blow up each other ! ” 

Uncle Jack (mysteriously). — “Newspapers! you don’t often 
read a newspaper, Austin Caxton?” 

Mr. Caxton. — “Granted, John Tibbets!” 

Uncle Jack. — “ But if my speculation make you read a news- 
paper every day ? ” 

Mr. Caxton (astounded). — “ Make me read a newspaper every 
day ! ” 

Uncle Jack (warming, and expanding his hands to the fire). — 
“ As big as the Times ! ” 

Mr. Caxton (uneasily). — “ Jack, you alarm me ! ” 

Uncle Jack. — “ And make you write in it too — a leader ! ” 

Mr. Caxton, pushing back his chair, seizes the only weapon to 


138 


THE CAXTONS : 


his command, and hurls at Uncle Jack a great sentence of Greek 
“ Tons [M€v yap etvai x<xA.€7 rovs, ocre nai avOpoiiroc^yeLV ! ’ * 

Uncle Jack (nothing daunted). — Ay, and put as much Greek 
as you like into it ! ” 

Mr. Caxton (relieved and softening). — “ My dear Jack, you 
are a great man — let us hear you ! ” 

Then Uncle Jack began. Now, perhaps my readers may have 
remarked that this illustrious speculator was really fortunate in 
his ideas. His speculations in themselves always had something 
sound in the kernel, considering how barren they were in the 
fruit ; and this it was that inade him so dangerous. The idea 
Uncle Jack had now got hold of will, I am convinced, make a 
man’s fortune one of these days ; and I relate it with a sigh, 
in thinking how much has gone out of the family. Know, then, 
it was nothing less than setting up a daily paper on the plan 
of the Times , but devoted entirely to Art, Literature, and 
Science — Mental Progress, in short ; I say on the plan of the 
Times, for it was to imitate the mighty machinery of that 
diurnal illuminator. It was to be the Literary Salmoneus of 
the Political Jupiter, and rattle its thunder over the bridge of 
knowledge. It was to have correspondents in all parts of the 
globe ; everything that related to the chronicle of the mind, 
from the labour of the missionary in the South Sea Islands, or 
the research of a traveller in pursuit of that mirage called 
Timbuctoo, to the last new novel at Paris, or the last great 
emendation of a Greek particle at a German university, was to 
find a place in this focus of light. It was to amuse, to instruct, 
to interest — there was nothing it was not to do. Not a man in 
the whole reading public, not only of the three kingdoms, not 
only of the British empire, but under the cope of heaven, that 
it was not to touch somewhere, in head, in heart, or in pocket. 
The most crotchety member of the intellectual community might 
find his own hobby in those stables. 

“ Think,” cried Uncle Jack , — “ think of the march of mind — 
think of the passion for cheap knowledge — think how little 
quarterly, monthly, weekly journals can keep pace with the main 
wants of the age. As well have a weekly journal on politics, as 
a weekly journal on all the matters still more interesting than 
politics to the mass of the public. My Literary Times once 

* “Some were so barbarous as to eat their own species.” The sentence 
refers to the Scythians, and is in Strabo. I mention the authority, for 
Strabo is not an author that any man engaged on a less work than the 
History of Human Error is expected to have by heart. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


139 


started, people will wonder how they had ever lived without it ! 
Sir, they have not lived without it — they have vegetated — they 
have lived in holes and caves, like the Troggledikes.” 

“ Troglodytes,” said my father mildly — “ from trogle, a cave — 
and dami, to go under. They lived in Ethiopia, and had their 
wives in common.” 

“ As to the last point, I don’t say that the public, poor crea- 
tures, are as bad as that,” said Uncle Jack candidly ; “ but no 
simile holds good in all its points. And the public are no less 
Troggledummies, or whatever you call them, compared with what 
they will be when living under the full light of my Literary Times. 
Sir, it will be a revolution in the world. It will bring literature 
out of the clouds into the parlour, the cottage, the kitchen. The 
idlest dandy, the finest fine lady, will find something to her taste; 
the busiest man of the mart and counter will find some acquisition 
to his practical knowledge. The practical man will see the pro- 
gress of divinity, medicine, nay, even law. Sir, the Indian will 
read me under the banyan ; I shall be in the seraglios of the 
East ; and over my sheets the American Indian will smoke the 
calumet of peace. We shall reduce politics to its proper level in 
the affairs of life — raise literature to its due place in the thoughts 
and business of men. It is a grand thought ; and my heart swells 
with pride while I contemplate it ! ” 

“ My dear Jack,” said my father seriously, and rising with 
emotion, “it is a grand thought, and I honour you for it. You 
are quite right — it would be a revolution ! It would educate 
mankind insensibly. Upon my life, I should be proud to write 
a leader, or a paragraph. Jack, you will immortalise yourself! ” 

“I believe I shall,” said Uncle Jack modestly; “but I have 
not said a word yet on the greatest attraction of all.” 

“ Ah ! and that ? ” 

“ The Advertisements ! ” cried my uncle, spreading his hands 
with all the fingers at angles, like the threads of a spider’s web. 
“ The advertisements — oh, think of them ! — a perfect El 
Dorado. The advertisements, sir, on the most moderate calcu- 
lation, will bring us in £50,000 a year. My dear Pisistratus, I 
shall never marry ; you are my heir. Embrace me ! ” 

So saying, my Uncle Jack threw himself upon me, and 
squeezed out of breath the prudential demur that was rising to 
my lips. 

My poor mother, between laughing and sobbing, faltered out 
— “ And it is my brother who will pay back to his son all — all 
he gave up for me ! ” While my father walked to and fro the 


140 


THE CAXTONS 


room, more excited than ever I saw him before, muttering, 
" A sad useless dog I have been hitherto ! I should like to serve 
the world ! I should indeed !” 

Uncle Jack had fairly done it this time. He had found out 
the only bait in the world to catch so shy a carp as my father — 
“ hceret lethalis arundo .” I saw that the deadly hook was within 
an inch of my father’s nose, and that he was gazing at it with a 
fixed determination to swallow. 

But if it amused my father? Boy that I was, I saw no 
further. I must own I myself was dazzled, and, perhaps with 
childlike malice, delighted at the perturbation of my betters. 
The young carp was pleased to see the waters so playfully in 
movement, when the old carp waved his tail, and swayed him- 
self on his fins. 

“Mum!” said Uncle Jack, releasing me; "not a word to 
Mr. Trevanion, to any one.” 

" But why ? ” 

" Why ? God bless my soul. Why ? If my scheme gets 
wind, do you suppose some one will not clap on sail to be before 
me ? You frighten me out of my senses. Promise me faith- 
fully to be silent as the grave.” 

" I should like to hear Trevanion’s opinion too.” 

" As well hear the town-crier ! Sir, I have trusted to your 
honour. Sir, at the domestic hearth all secrets are sacred. 
Sir, I ” 

" My dear Uncle Jack, you have said quite enough. Not a 
word will I breathe ! ” 

" I’m sure you may trust him, Jack,” said my mother. 

"And I do trust him — with wealth untold,” replied my 
uncle. " May I ask you for a little water — with a trifle of 
brandy in it — and a biscuit, or indeed a sandwich. This talking 
makes me quite hungry.” 

My eye fell upon Uncle Jack as he spoke. Poor Uncle Jack, 
he had grown thin ! 


PART VII 


CHAPTER I 

C AITH Dr. Luther, “ When I saw Dr. Gode begin to tell his 
^ puddings hanging in the chimney, I told him he would not 
live long ! ” 

I wish I had copied that passage from “The Table Talk” in 
large round hand, and set it before my father at breakfast, the 
morn preceding that fatal eve in which Uncle Jack persuaded 
him to tell his puddings. 

Yet, now I think of it. Uncle Jack hung the puddings in 
the chimney, — but he did not persuade my father to tell 
them. 

Beyond a vague surmise that half the suspended “tomacula” 
would furnish a breakfast to Uncle Jack, and that the youthful 
appetite of Pisistratus would despatch the rest, my father did 
not give a thought to the nutritious properties of the puddings, 
— in other words, to the two thousand pounds which, thanks to 
Mr. Tibbets, dangled down the chimney. So far as the Great 
Work was concerned, my father only cared for its publication, 
not its profits. I will not say that he might not hunger for 
praise, but I am quite sure that he did not care a button for 
pudding. Nevertheless, it was an infaust and sinister augury 
for Austin Caxton, the very appearance, the very suspension 
and danglement of any puddings whatsoever, right over his 
ingle-nook, when those puddings were made by the sleek hands 
of Uncle Jack ! None of the puddings which he, poor man, 
had all his life been stringing, whether from his own chimneys, 
or the chimneys of other people, had turned out to be real 
puddings, — they had always been the eidola, the erscheinungen, 
the phantoms and semblances of puddings. I question if Uncle 
Jack knew much about Democritus of Abdera. But he was 
certainly tainted with the philosophy of that fanciful sage. He 
peopled the air with images of colossal stature which impressed 
all his dreams and divinations, and from whose influences came 

141 


142 


THE CAXTONS : 


his very sensations and thoughts. His whole being, asleep or 
waking, was thus but the reflection of great phantom puddings ! 

As soon as Mr. Tibbets had possessed himself of the two 
volumes of the “History of Human Error,” he had necessarily 
established that hold upon my father which hitherto those 
lubricate hands of his had failed to effect. He had found what 
he had so long sighed for in vain, his point d’appui, wherein to 
fix the Archimedean screw. He fixed it tight in the “ History 
of Human Error,” and moved the Caxtonian world. 

A day or two after the conversation recorded in my last 
chapter, I saw Uncle Jack coming out of the mahogany doors 
of my father’s banker ; and, from that time, there seemed no 
reason why Mr. Tibbets should not visit his relations on week- 
days as well as Sundays. Not a day, indeed, passed but what he 
held long conversations with my father. He had much to report 
of his interviews with the publishers. In these conversations 
he naturally recurred to that grand idea of the Literary 
Times, which had so dazzled my poor father’s imagination ; 
and, having heated the iron. Uncle Jack was too knowing a 
man not to strike while it was hot. 

When I think of the simplicity my wise father exhibited in 
this crisis of his life, I must own that I am less moved by pity 
than admiration for that poor great-hearted student. We have 
seen that out of the learned indolence of twenty years, the ambi- 
tion which is the instinct of a man of genius had emerged ; 
the serious preparation of the Great Book for the perusal of the 
world, had insensibly restored the claims of that noisy world 
on the silent individual. And therewith came a noble remorse 
that he had hitherto done so little for his species. Was it 
enough to write quartos upon the past history of Human Error? 
was it not his duty, when the occasion was fairly presented, 
to enter upon that present, daily, hourly war with Error — which 
is the sworn chivalry of Knowledge ? St. George did not dissect 
dead dragons, he fought the live one. And London, with that 
magnetic atmosphere which in great capitals fills the breath 
of life with stimulating particles, had its share in quickening 
the slow pulse of the student. In the country, he read but 
his old authors, and lived with them through the gone ages. 
In the city, my father, during the intervals of repose from the 
Great Book, and still more now that the Great Book had come 
to a pause, — inspected the literature of his own time. It had 
a prodigious effect upon him. He was unlike the ordinary run 
of scholars, and, indeed, of readers for that matter — who, in their 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


143 


superstitious homage to the dead, are always willing enough to 
sacrifice the living. He did justice to the marvellous fertility 
of intellect which characterises the authorship of the present 
age. By the present age, I do not only mean the present 
day, I commence with the century. “What,” said my father 
one day in dispute with Trevanion — “what characterises the 
literature of our time is — its human interest. It is true that 
we do not see scholars addressing scholars, but men addressing 
men, — not that scholars are fewer, but that the reading public 
is more large. Authors in all ages address themselves to what 
interests their readers ; the same things do not interest a vast 
community which interested half a score of monks or book- 
worms. The literary polls was once an oligarchy, it is now a 
republic. It is the general brilliancy of the atmosphere which 
prevents your noticing the size of any particular star. Do you 
not see that with the cultivation of the masses has awakened 
the Literature of the affections ? Every sentiment finds an 
expositor, every feeling an oracle. Like Epimenides, I have 
been sleeping in a cave ; and, waking, I see those whom I left 
children are bearded men ; and towns have sprung up in the 
landscapes which I left as solitary wastes.” 

Thence the reader may perceive the causes of the change 
which had come over my father. As Robert Hall says, I think 
of Dr. Kippis, “he had laid so many books at the top of his 
head, that the brains could not move.” But the electricity had 
now penetrated the heart, and the quickened vigour of that 
noble organ enabled the brain to stir. Meanwhile, I leave my 
father to these influences, and to the continuous conversations of 
Uncle Jack, and proceed with the thread of my own egotism. 

Thanks to Mr. Trevanion, my habits were not those which 
favour friendships with the idle, but I formed some acquaint- 
ances amongst young men a few years older than myself, who 
held subordinate situations in the public offices, or were keeping 
their terms for the bar. There was no want of ability amongst 
these gentlemen ; but they had not yet settled into the stern 
prose of life. Their busy hours only made them more disposed 
to enjoy the hours of relaxation. And when we got together, 
a very gay, light-hearted set we were ! We had neither money 
enough to be very extravagant, nor leisure enough to be very 
dissipated ; but we amused ourselves notwithstanding. My 
new friends were wonderfully erudite in all matters connected 
with the theatres. From an opera to a ballet, from Hamlet 
to the last farce from the French, they had the literature of 


144 


THE CAXTONS: 


the stage at the finger-ends of their straw-coloured gloves. They 
had a pretty large acquaintance with actors and actresses, and 
were perfect Walpoluli in the minor scandals of the day. To do 
them justice, however, they were not indifferent to the more 
masculine knowledge necessary in "this wrong world.” They 
talked as familiarly of the real actors of life as of the sham ones. 
They could adjust to a hair the rival pretensions of contending 
statesmen. They did not profess to be deep in the mysteries of 
foreign cabinets (with the exception of one young gentleman 
connected with the Foreign Office, who prided himself on 
knowing exactly what the Russians meant to do with India — 
when they got it) ; but, to make amends, the majority of them 
had penetrated the closest secrets of our own. It is true that, 
according to a proper subdivision of labour, each took some par- 
ticular member of the government for his special observation ; 
just as the most skilful surgeons, however profoundly versed in 
the general structure of our frame, rest their anatomical fame 
on the light they throw on particular parts of it, — one man 
taking the brain, another the duodenum, a third the spinal cord, 
while a fourth, perhaps, is a master of all the symptoms in- 
dicated by a pensile finger. Accordingly, one of my friends 
appropriated to himself the Home Department ; another the 
Colonies ; and a third, whom we all regarded as a future Talley- 
rand (or a De Retz at least), had devoted himself to the special 
study of Sir Robert Peel, and knew, by the way in which that 
profound and inscrutable statesman threw open his coat, every 
thought that was passing in his breast ! Whether lawyers or 
officials, they all had a great idea of themselves — high notions 
of what they were to be, rather than what they were to do, some 
day. As the king of modern fine gentlemen said of himself, 
in paraphrase of Voltaire, " they had letters in their pockets ad- 
dressed to Posterity, — which the chances were, however, that they 
might forget to deliver.” Somewhat "priggish” most of them 
might be ; but, on the whole, they were far more interesting than 
mere idle men of pleasure. There was about them, as features 
of a general family likeness, a redundant activity of life — a 
gay exuberance of ambition — a light-hearted earnestness when 
at work — a schoolboy’s enjoyment of the hours of play. 

A great contrast to these young men was Sir Sedley Beau- 
desert, who was pointedly kind to me, and whose bachelor’s 
house was always open to me after noon : Sir Sedley was visible 
to no one but his valet, before that hour. A perfect bachelor’s 
house it was, too — with its windows opening on the Park, and 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


145 


sofas niched into the windows, on which you might loll at your 
ease, like the philosopher in Lucretius, — 

“ Despicere unde queas alios, passimque videre, 

Errare,” — 

and see the gay crowds ride to and fro Rotten Row — without 
the fatigue of joining them, especially if the wind was in the 
east. 

There was no affectation of costliness about the rooms, but a 
wonderful accumulation of comfort. Every patent chair that 
proffered a variety in the art of lounging found its place there ; 
and near every chair a little table, on which you might deposit 
your book or your coffee-cup, without the trouble of moving 
more than your hand. In winter, nothing warmer than the 
quilted curtains and Axminster carpets can be conceived. In 
summer, nothing airier and cooler than the muslin draperies 
and the Indian mattings. And I defy a man to know to what 
perfection dinner may be brought, unless he had dined with 
Sir Sedley Beaudesert. Certainly, if that distinguished personage 
had but been an egotist, he had been the happiest of men. 
But, unfortunately for him, he was singularly amiable and kind- 
hearted. He had the bonne digestion, but not the other requisite 
for worldly felicity — the mauvais cceur. He felt a sincere pity 
for every one else who lived in rooms without patent chairs and 
little coffee-tables — whose windows did not look on the Park, 
with sofas niched into their recesses. As Henry IV. wished 
every man to have hispo£ aufeu, so Sir Sedley Beaudesert, if he 
could have had his way, would have every man served with an 
early cucumber for his fish, and a caraffe of iced water by the 
side of his bread and cheese. He thus evinced on politics a 
naive simplicity, which delightfully contrasted his acuteness on 
matters of taste. I remember his saying, in a discussion on the 
Beer Bill, “ The poor ought not to be allowed to drink beer, it 
is so particularly rheumatic ! The best drink in hard work is 
dry champagne — (not mousseux ) — I found that out when I used 
to shoot on the moors.” 

Indolent as Sir Sedley was, he had contrived to open an 
extraordinary number of drains on his wealth. 

First, as a landed proprietor, there was no end to applica- 
tions from distressed farmers, aged poor, benefit societies, and 
poachers he had thrown out of employment by giving up his 
preserves to please his tenants. 

Next, as a man of pleasure, the whole race of womankind had 

K 


146 


THE CAXTONS : 


legitimate demands on him. From a distressed duchess, whose 
picture lay perdu under a secret spring of his snuff-box, to a 
decayed laundress, to whom he might have paid a compliment 
on the perfect involutions of a frill, it was quite sufficient to be 
a daughter of Eve to establish a just claim on Sir Sedley’s 
inheritance from Adam. 

Again, as an amateur of art, and a respectful servant of every 
muse, all whom the public had failed to patronise — painter, 
actor, poet, musician — turned, like dying sunflowers to the sun, 
towards the pitying smile of Sir Sedley Beaudesert. Add to 
these the general miscellaneous multitude who “had heard of 
Sir Sedley’s high character for benevolence,” and one may well 
suppose what a very costly reputation he had set up. In fact, 
though Sir Sedley could not spend on what might fairly be 
called “ himself,” a fifth part of his very handsome income, I 
have no doubt that he found it difficult to make both ends meet 
at the close of the year. That he did so, he owed perhaps 
to two rules which his philosophy had peremptorily adopted. 
He never made debts, and he never gambled. For both 
these admirable aberrations from the ordinary routine of fine 
gentlemen, I believe he was indebted to the softness of his 
disposition. He had a great compassion for a wretch who was 
dunned. “Poor fellow ! ” he would say, “it must be so painful 
to him to pass his life in saying No.” So little did he know 
about that class of promisers, — as if a man dunned ever said No. 
As Beau Brummell, when asked if he was fond of vegetables, 
owned that he had once eat a pea, so Sir Sedley Beaudesert 
owned that he had once played high at piquet. “ I was so un- 
lucky as to win,” said he, referring to that indiscretion, “and 
I shall never forget the anguish on the face of the man who 
paid me. Unless I could always lose, it would be a perfect 
purgatory to play.” 

Now nothing could be more different in their kinds of bene- 
volence than Sir Sedley and Mr. Trevanion. Mr. Trevanion 
had a great contempt for individual charity. He rarely put his 
hand into his purse — he drew a great cheque on his bankers. 
Was a congregation without a church, or a village without a 
school, or a river without a bridge, Mr. Trevanion set to work 
on calculations, found out the exact sum required by an algebraic 
x — y, and paid it as he would have paid his butcher, it must 
be owned that the distress of a man, whom he allowed to be 
deserving, did not appeal to him in vain. But it is astonishing 
how little he spent in that way ; for it was hard, indeed, to 


A FAMILY PICTURE 147 

convince Mr. Trevanion that a deserving man ever was in such 
distress as to want charity. 

That Trevanion, nevertheless, did infinitely more real good 
than Sir Sedley, I believe ; but he did it as a mental operation 
— by no means as an impulse from the heart. I am sorry to 
say that the main difference was this, — distress always seemed to 
accumulate round Sir Sedley, and vanish from the presence of 
Trevanion. Where the last came, with his busy, active, search- 
ing mind, energy woke, improvement sprang up. Where the 
first came, with his warm kind heart, a kind of torpor spread 
under its rays ; people lay down and basked in the liberal sun- 
shine. Nature in one broke forth like a brisk sturdy winter, 
in the other like a lazy Italian summer. Winter is an excellent 
invigorator, no doubt, but we all love summer better. 

Now, it is a proof how lovable Sir Sedley was, that I loved 
him, and yet was jealous of him. Of all the satellites round 
my fair Cynthia, Fanny Trevanion, I dreaded most this amiable 
luminary. It was in vain for me to say with the insolence of 
youth that Sir Sedley Beaudesert was of the same age as 
Fanny’s father ; — to see them together, he might have passed 
for Trevanion’s son. No one amongst the younger generation 
was half so handsome as Sedley Beaudesert. He might be 
eclipsed at first sight by the showy effect of more redundant 
locks and more brilliant bloom ; but he had but to speak, to 
smile, in order to throw a whole cohort of dandies into the 
shade. It was the expression of his countenance that was so 
bewitching ; there was something so kindly in its easy candour, 
its benign good-nature. And he understood women so well ! 
He flattered their foibles so insensibly ; he commanded their 
affection with so gracious a dignity. Above all, what with his 
accomplishments, his peculiar reputation, his long celibacy, and 
the soft melancholy of his sentiments, he always contrived to 
interest them. There was not a charming woman by whom this 
charming man did not seem just on the point of being caught ! 
It was like the sight of a splendid trout in a transparent stream, 
sailing pensively to and fro your fly, in a will-and-a-won’t sort of 
way. Such a trout ! it would be a thousand pities to leave him, 
when evidently so well disposed ! That trout, fair maid or 
gentle widow, would have kept you whipping the stream and 
dragging the fly from morning to dewy eve. Certainly I don’t 
wish worse to my bitterest foe of five-and-twenty than such a 
rival as Sedley Beaudesert at seven-and-forty. 

Fanny, indeed, perplexed me horribly. Sometimes I fancied 


148 


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she liked me ; but the fancy scarce thrilled me with delight, 
before it vanished in the frost of a careless look, or the cold 
beam of a sarcastic laugh. Spoiled darling of the world as she 
was, she seemed so innocent in her exuberant happiness, that 
one forgot all her faults in that atmosphere of joy which she 
diffused around her. And, despite her pretty insolence, she 
had so kind a woman’s heart below the surface ! When she 
once saw that she had pained you, she was so soft, so winning, 
so humble, till she had healed the wound. But then , if she saw 
she had pleased you too much, the little witch was never easy 
till she had plagued you again. As heiress to so rich a father, 
or rather perhaps mother (for the fortune came from Lady 
Ellinor), she was naturally surrounded with admirers not wholly 
disinterested. She did right to plague them — but me ! Poor 
boy that I was, why should I seem more disinterested than 
others ! how should she perceive all that lay hid in my young 
deep heart ? Was I not in all worldly pretensions the least 
worthy of her admirers, and might I not seem, therefore, the 
most mercenary ? I who never thought of her fortune, or if 
that thought did come across me, it was to make me start and 
turn pale ! And then it vanished at her first glance, as a ghost 
from the dawn. How hard it is to convince youth, that sees all 
the world of the future before it, and covers that future with 
golden palaces, of the inequalities of life ! In my fantastic and 
sublime romance, I looked out into that Great Beyond, saw 
myself orator, statesman, minister, ambassador — Heaven knows 
wliat — laying laurels, which I mistook for rent-rolls, at Fanny’s 
feet. 

Whatever Fanny might have discovered as to the state of my 
heart, it seemed an abyss not worth prying into by either 
Trevanion or Lady Ellinor. The first, indeed, as may be sup- 
posed, was too busy to think of such trifles. And Lady Ellinor 
treated me as a mere boy — almost like a boy of her own, she 
was so kind to me. But she did not notice much the things 
that lay immediately around her. In brilliant conversation with 
poets, wits, and statesmen — in sympathy with the toils of her 
husband — or proud schemes for his aggrandisement. Lady Ellinor 
lived a life of excitement. Those large eager shining eyes of 
hers, bright with some feverish discontent, looked far abroad as 
if for new worlds to conquer — the world at her feet escaped 
from her vision. She loved her daughter, she was proud of her, 
trusted in her with a superb repose — she did not watch over her. 
Lady Ellinor stood alone on a mountain, and amidst a cloud. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


149 


CHAPTER II 

/'ANE day the Trevanions had all gone into the country on a 
visit to a retired minister distantly related to Lady Ellinor, 
and who was one of the few persons Trevanion himself conde- 
scended to consult. I had almost a holiday. I went to r*all 
on Sir Sedley Beaudesert. — I had always longed to sound him 
on one subject, and had never dared. This time I resolved to 
pluck up courage. 

“ Ah, my young friend ! ” said he, rising from the contempla- 
tion of a villainous picture by a young artist, which he had just 
benevolently purchased, “ I was thinking of you this morning. — 
Wait a moment, Sumners (this to the valet). Be so good as to 
take this picture, let it be packed up and go down into the 
country. It is a sort of picture,” he added, turning to me, 
“ that requires a large house. I have an old gallery with little 
casements that let in no light. It is astonishing how con- 
venient I have found it ! ” As soon as the picture was gone. 
Sir Sedley drew a long breath, as if relieved ; and resumed 
more gaily — 

“ Yes, I was thinking of you : and if you will forgive any inter- 
ference in your affairs — from your father’s old friend — I should 
be greatly honoured by your permission to ask Trevanion what 
he supposes is to be the ultimate benefit of the horrible labours 
he inflicts upon you.” 

“ But, my dear Sir Sedley, I like the labours ; I am perfectly 
contented.” 

“ Not to remain always secretary to one who, if there were no 
business to be done among men, would set about teaching the 
ants to build hills upon better architectural principles ! My 
dear sir, Trevanion is an awful man, a stupendous man — one 
catches fatigue if one is in the same room with him three minutes! 
At your age, an age that ought to be so happy,” continued Sir 
Sedley, with a compassion perfectly angelic, “it is sad to see so 
little enjoyment ! ” 

“But, Sir Sedley, I assure you that you are mistaken. I 
thoroughly enjoy myself ; and have I not heard even you confess 
that one may be idle and not happy ? ” 

“ I did not confess that till I was on the wrong side of forty!” 
said Sir Sedley, with a slight shade on his brow. 

“ Nobody would ever think you were on the wrong side of 


150 


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forty ! ” said I with artful flattery, winding into my subject. 
“ Miss Trevanion for instance ? ” 

I paused. Sir Sedley looked hard at me, from his bright dark- 
blue eyes. “ Well, Miss Trevanion for instance ? ” 

“ Miss Trevanion, who has all the best-looking fellows in 
London round her, evidently prefers you to any of them.” 

I said this with a great gulp. I was obstinately bent on 
plumbing the depth of my own fears. 

Sir Sedley rose ; he laid his hand kindly on mine, and said, 
“ Do not let Fanny Trevanion torment you even more than her 
father does ! ” 

“ I don’t understand you. Sir Sedley ! ” 

“ But if I understand you, that is more to the purpose. A girl 
like Miss Trevanion is cruel till she discovers she has a heart. 
It is not safe to risk one’s own with any woman till she has 
ceased to be a coquette. My dear young friend, if you took 
life less in earnest, I should spare you the pain of these hints. 
Some men sow flowers, some plant trees — you are planting a 
tree under which you will soon find that no flower will grow. 
Well and good, if the tree could last to bear fruit and give 
shade ; but beware lest you have to tear it up one day or other ; 
for then — what then ? why, you will find your whole life plucked 
away with its roots ! ” 

Sir Sedley said these last words with so serious an emphasis, 
that I was startled from the confusion I had felt at the former 
part of his address. He paused long, tapped his snuff-box, 
inhaled a pinch slowly, and continued, with his more accustomed 
sprightliness — 

“ Go as much as you can into the world — again I say ‘ enjoy 
yourself.’ And again I ask, what is all this labour to do for you ? 
On some men, far less eminent than Trevanion, it would impose 
a duty to aid you in a practical career, to secure you a public 
employment — not so on him. He would not mortgage an inch 
of his independence by asking a favour from a minister. He so 
thinks occupation the delight of life, that he occupies you out of 
pure affection. He does not trouble his head about your future. 
He supposes your father will provide for that, and does not con- 
sider that meanwhile your work leads to nothing ! Think over 
all this. I have now bored you enough.” 

I was bewildered — I was dumb : these practical men of the 
world, how they take us by surprise ! Here had I come to 
sound Sir Sedley, and here was I plumbed, gauged, measured, 
turned inside out, without having got an inch beyond the 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


151 


surface of that smiling, debonnaire, unruffled ease. Yet Avitli 
his invariable delicacy, in spite of all this horrible frankness, 
Sir Sedley had not said a word to wound what he might think 
the more sensitive part of my amour propre — not a word as to 
the inadequacy of my pretensions to think seriously of Fanny 
Trevanion. Had Ave been the Celadon and Chloe of a country 
village, he could not have regarded us as more equal, so far as 
the world went. And for the rest, he rather insinuated that 
poor Fanny, the great heiress, was not worthy of me, than that 
I was not worthy of Fanny. 

I felt that there was no wisdom in stammering and blushing 
out denials and equivocations: so I stretched my hand to Sir 
Sedley, took up my hat, — and went. Instinctively I bent my 
way to my father’s house. I had not been there for many days. 
Not only had I had a great deal to do in the way of business, 
but I am ashamed to say that pleasure itself had so entangled 
my leisure hours, and Miss Trevanion especially so absorbed 
them, that, without even uneasy foreboding, I had left my father 
fluttering his wings more feebly and feebly in the web of Uncle 
Jack. When I arrived in Russell Street, I found the fly and the 
spider cheek by joAvl together. Uncle Jack sprang up at my 
entrance, and cried, " Congratulate your father. Congratulate 
him ! — no ; congratulate the world ! ” 

“ What, uncle,” said I, with a dismal effort at sympathising 
liveliness, “ is the Literary Times launched at last ? ” 

“ Oh, that is all settled — settled long since. Here’s a speci- 
men of the type we have chosen for the leaders.” And Uncle 
Jack, whose pocket Avas never without a wet sheet of some kind 
or other, drew forth a steaming papyral monster, which in point 
of size was to the political Times as a mammoth may be to 
an elephant. “ That is all settled. We are only preparing our 
contributors, and shall put out our programme next week or the 
week after. No, Pisistratus, I mean the Great Work.” 

“ My dear father, I am so glad. What ! it is really sold, 
then ? ” 

“ Hum ! ” said my father. 

“ Sold ! ” burst forth Uncle Jack. “ Sold — no, sir, we would 
not sell it ! No : if all the booksellers fell down on their knees 
to us, as they will some day, that book should not be sold ! Sir, 
that book is a revolution — it is an era — it is the emancipator of 
genius from mercenary thraldom ; — that book ! ” 

I looked inquiringly from uncle to father, and mentally re- 
tracted my congratulations. Then Mr. Caxton, slightly blushing. 


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and shyly rubbing his spectacles, said, “ You see, Pisistratus, 
that though poor Jack has devoted uncommon pains to induce 
the publishers to recognise the merit he has discovered in the 
f History of Human Error/ he has failed to do so.” 

“ Not a bit of it ; they all acknowledge its miraculous learning 
— its ” 

“ Very true ; but they don’t think it will sell, and therefore 
most selfishly refuse to buy it. One bookseller, indeed, offered 
to treat for it if I would leave out all about the Hottentots and 
Caffres, the Greek philosophers and Egyptian priests, and con- 
fining myself solely to polite society, entitle the work ‘ Anecdotes 
of the Courts of Europe, ancient and modern.’ ” 

“The wretch ! ” groaned Uncle Jack. 

“ Another thought it might be cut up into little essays, leav- 
ing out the quotations, entitled f Men and Manners.’ A third 
was kind enough to observe, that though this particular work 
was quite unsaleable, yet, as I appeared to have some historical 
information, he should be happy to undertake an historical 
romance from f my graphic pen ’ — that was the phrase, was it 
not, Jack ? ” 

Jack was too full to speak. 

— “ Provided I would introduce a proper love-plot, and make 
it into three volumes post octavo, twenty-three lines in a page, 
neither more nor less. One honest fellow at last was found, 
who seemed to me a very respectable and indeed enterprising 
person. And after going through a list of calculations, which 
showed that no possible profit could arise, he generously offered 
to give me half of those no-profits, provided I would guarantee 
half the very visible expenses. I was just meditating the 
prudence of accepting this proposal, when your uncle was 
seized with a sublime idea, which has whisked up my book in 
a whirlwind of expectation.” 

“ And that idea ? ” said I despondingly. 

“ That idea,” quoth Uncle Jack, recovering himself, “ is 
simply and shortly this. From time immemorial, authors have 
been the prey of the publishers. Sir, authors have lived in 
garrets, nay, have been choked in the street by an unexpected 
crumb of bread, like the man who wrote the play, poor 
fellow ! ” 

“Otway,” said my father. “The story is not true no 

matter.” 

“ Milton, sir, as everybody knows, sold f Paradise Lost ’ for ten 
pounds — ten pounds, sir! In short, instances of a like nature 


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153 


are too numerous to quote. But the booksellers, sir — they are 
leviathans — they roll in seas of gold. They subsist upon authors 
as vampires upon little children. But at last endurance has 
reached its limit — the fiat has gone forth — the tocsin of liberty 
has resounded — authors have burst their fetters. And we have 
just inaugurated the institution of f The Grand Anti-Publisher 
Confederate Authors’ Society/ by which, Pisistratus — by 
which, mark you, every author is to be his own publisher ; that 
is, every author who joins the Society. No more submission of 
immortal works to mercenary calculators, to sordid tastes — no 
more hard bargains and broken hearts ! — no more crumbs of 
bread choking great tragic poets in the streets — no more 
Paradises Lost sold at «£10 apiece ! The author brings his 
book to a select committee appointed for the purpose ; men 
of delicacy, education, and refinement — authors themselves ; 
they read it, the Society publish ; and after a modest deduc- 
tion, which goes toward the funds of the Society, the treasurer 
hands over the profits to the author.” 

“So that in fact, uncle, every author who can’t find a pub- 
lisher anywhere else, will of course come to the Society. The 
fraternity will be numerous.” 

“ It will indeed.” 

“ And the speculation — ruinous.” 

“ Ruinous, why ? ” 

“ Because in all mercantile negotiations, it is ruinous to invest 
capital in supplies which fail of demand. You undertake to 
publish books that booksellers will not publish — why ? because 
booksellers can’t sell them. It is just probable that you’ll not 
sell them any better than the booksellers. Ergo, the more 
your business, the larger your deficit ; and the more numerous 
your society, the more disastrous your condition, q.e.d.” 

“ Pooh ! The select committee will decide what books are to 
be published.” 

“ Then, where the deuce is the advantage to the authors ? 
I would as lief submit my work to a publisher as I would to a 
select committee of authors. At all events, the publisher is not 
my rival ; and I suspect he is the best judge, after all, of a 
book — as an accoucheur ought to be of a baby.” 

“ Upon my word, nephew, you pay a bad compliment to your 
father’s Great Work, which the booksellers will have nothing to 
do with.” 

That was artfully said, and I was posed : when Mr. Caxton 
observed, with an apologetic smile — 


154 


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“ The fact is, my dear Pisistratus, that I want my book pub- 
lished without diminishing the little fortune 1 keep for you 
some day. Uncle Jack starts a society so to publish it. — Health 
and long life to Uncle Jack’s society. One can t look a gift 
horse in the mouth.” 

Here my mother entered, rosy from a shopping expedition 
with Mrs. Primmins ; and in her joy at hearing that I could 
stay dinner, all else was forgotten. By a wonder, which I did 
not regret, Uncle Jack really was engaged to dine out. He 
had other irons in the fire besides the Literary Times and the 
Confederate Authors’ Society : he was deep in a scheme for 
making house-tops of felt (which, under other hands, has, I 
believe, since succeeded) ; and he had found a rich man (I sup- 
pose a hatter) who seemed well inclined to the project, and had 
actually asked him to dine and expound his views. 


CHAPTER III 

TTERE we three are seated round the open window — after 
dinner — familiar as in the old happy time — and my mother 
is talking low, that she may not disturb my father, who seems 
in thought. 

Cr-cr-crrr-cr-cr ! I feel it — I have it. — Where ! What ! 
Where ! Knock it down — brush it off! For Heaven’s sake, 
see to it ! — Crrrr — crrrrr — there — here — in my hair — in my 
sleeve — in my ear. — Cr-cr. 

I say solemnly — and on the word of a Christian, that, as I sat 
down to begin this chapter, being somewhat in a brown study, 
the pen insensibly slipt from my hand, and leaning back in my 
chair, I fell to gazing into the fire. It is the end of June, and 
a remarkably cold evening — even for that time of year. And 
while I was so gazing I felt something crawling just by the 
nape of the neck, ma’am. Instinctively and mechanically, and 
still musing, I put my hand there, and drew forth — What? 
That what it is which perplexes me. It was a thing — a dark 
thing — a much bigger thing than I had expected. And the 
sight took me so by surprise, that I gave my hand a violent 
shake, and the thing went — where I know not. The what and 
the where are the knotty points in the whole question ! No 
sooner had it gone, than I was seized with repentance not to 
have examined it more closely — not to have ascertained what 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


155 


the creature was. It might have been an earwig — a very large 
motherly earwig — an earwig far gone in that way in which 
earwigs wish to be who love their lords. I have a profound 
horror of earwigs — I firmly believe that they do get into the 
ear. That is a subject on which it is useless to argue with me 
upon philosophical grounds. I have a vivid recollection of a 
story told me by Mrs. Primmins — How a lady for many years 
suffered under the most excruciating headaches ; how, as the 
tombstones say, “ physicians were in vain ; ” how she died ; and 
how her head was opened, and how such a nest of earwigs — 
ma’am — such a nest ! — Earwigs are the prolifickest things, and 
so fond of their offspring ! They sit on their eggs like hens — 
and the young, as soon as they are born, creep under them for 
protection — quite touchingly ] Imagine such an establishment 
domesticated at one’s tympanum ! 

But the creature was certainly larger than an earwig. It 
might have been one of that genus in the family of Forjiculidce, 
called Labidoura — monsters whose antennae have thirty joints ! 
There is a species of this creature in England, but to the great 
grief of naturalists, and to the great honour of Providence, very 
rarely found, infinitely larger than the common earwig, or 
Forficulida auriculana. Could it have been an early hornet ? It 
had certainly a black head, and great feelers. I have a greater 
horror of hornets, if possible, than I have of earwigs. Two 
hornets will kill a man, and three a carriage-horse sixteen hands 
high. However, the creature was gone.— Yes, but where? 
Where had I so rashly thrown it ? It might have got into a 
fold of my dressing-gown or into my slippers — or, in short, any- 
where, in the various recesses for earwigs and hornets which a 
gentleman’s habiliments afford. I satisfy myself at last, as far 
as I can, seeing that I am not alone in the room — that it is not 
upon me. I look upon the carpet — the rug — the chair — under 
the fender. It is non inventus. I barbarously hope it is frizzling 
behind that great black coal in the grate. I pluck up courage 
— I prudently remove to the other end of the room. I take up 
my pen — I begin my chapter — very nicely, too, I think upon 
the whole. I am just getting into my subject, when — cr-cr-cr- 
cr-cr — crawl — crawl — crawl — creep — creep — creep. Exactly, my 
dear ma’am, in the same place it was before ! Oh, by the 
Powers ! I forgot all my scientific regrets at not having 
scrutinised its genus before, whether Forficulida or Labidoura. 
I made a desperate lunge with both hands — something between 
thrust and cut, ma'am. The beast is gone. Yes, but again 


156 


THE CAXTONS : 


where ? I say that that where is a very horrible question. Having 
come twice, in spite of all my precautions — and exactly on the 
same spot, too — it shows a confirmed disposition to habituate 
itself to its quarters — to effect a parochial settlement upon me ; 
there is something awful and preternatural in it. I assure you 
that there is not a part of me that has not gone cr-cr-cr ! — that 
has not crept — crawled and forficulated ever since ; and I put it 

to you what sort of a chapter I can make after such a My 

good little girl, will you just take the candle, and look carefully 
under the table? — that’s a dear! Yes, my love, very black 
indeed, with two horns, and inclined to be corpulent. Gentle- 
men and ladies who have cultivated an acquaintance with the 
Phoenician language, are aware that Belzebub, examined etymo- 
logically and entomologically, is nothing more nor less than 
Baalzebub — “the Jupiter-fly” — an emblem of the Destroying 
Attribute, which attribute, indeed, is found in all the insect 
tribes more or less. Wherefore, as Mr. Payne Knight, in his “ In- 
quiry into Symbolical Languages,” hath observed, the Egyptian 
priests shaved their whole bodies, even to their eyebrows, lest 
unaw r are they should harbour any of the minor Zebubs of the 
great Baal. If I were the least bit more persuaded that that 
black cr-cr were about me still, and that the sacrifice of my 
eyebrows would deprive him of shelter, by the souls of the 
Ptolemies ! I would, — and I will too. Ring the bell, my little 
dear ! John, my — my cigar-box ! There is not a cr in the 
world that can abide the fumes of the Havannah ! Pshaw ! 
sir, I am not the only man who lets his first thoughts upon cold 
steel end, like this chapter, in — Pff — pff — pff ! 


CHAPTER IV 

TjWERYTHING in this world is of use, even a black thing 
^ crawling over the nape of one’s neck ! Grim unknown ! I 
shall make of thee — a simile. 

I think, ma’am, you will allow that if an incident such as I 
have described had befallen yourself, and you had a proper and 
ladylike horror of earwigs (however motherly and fond of their 
offspring), and also of early hornets, — and indeed of all un- 
known things of the insect tribe with black heads and two 
great horns, or feelers, or forceps, just by your ear — I think, 
ma’am, you will allow that you would find it difficult to settle 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


157 


back to your former placidity of mood and innocent stitch-work. 
You would feel a something that grated on your nerves — and 
cr’d-cr’d “all over you like,” as the children say. And the 
worst is, that you would be ashamed to say it. You would feel 
obliged to look pleased and join in the conversation, and not 
fidget too much, nor always be shaking your flounces, and look- 
ing into a dark corner of your apron. Thus it is with many 
other things in life besides black insects. One has a secret 
care — an abstraction — a something between the memory and 
the feeling, of a dark crawling cr, which one has never dared 
to analyse. So I sat by my mother, trying to smile and talk as 
in the old time, — but longing to move about and look around, 
and escape to my own solitude, and take the clothes off' my 
mind, and see what it was that had so troubled and terrified me 
— for trouble and terror were upon me. And my mother, who 
was always (Heaven bless her !) inquisitive enough in all that 
concerned her darling Anachronism, was especially inquisitive 
that evening. She made me say where I had been, and what I 
had done, and how I had spent my time, — and Fanny Trevanion 
(whom she had seen, by the way, three or four times, and whom 
she thought the prettiest person in the world) — oh, she must 
know exactly what I thought of Fanny Trevanion ! 

And all this while my father seemed in thought ; and so, with 
my arm over my mother’s chair, and my hand in hers, I 
answered my mother’s questions — sometimes by a stammer, 
sometimes by a violent effort at volubility ; when at some 
interrogatory that went tingling right to my heart I turned un- 
easily, and there were my father’s eyes fixed on mine — fixed 
as they had been — when, and none knew why, I pined and 
languished, and my father said “ he must go to school.” Fixed, 
with quiet watchful tenderness. Ah no ! — his thoughts had not 
been on the Great Work — he had been deep in the pages of 
that less worthy one for which he had yet more an author’s 
paternal care. I met those eyes, and yearned to throw myself 
on his heart — and tell him all. Tell him what? Ma’am, I no 
more knew what to tell him, than I know what that black 
thing was which has so worried me all this blessed evening ! 

“ Pisistratus,” said my father softly, “I fear you have for- 
gotten the saffron bag.” 

“ No, indeed, sir,” said I, smiling. 

“ He,” resumed my father, — “ he who wears the saffron bag 
has more cheerful, settled spirits than you seem to have, my 
poor boy.” 


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“ My dear Austin, his spirits are very good, I think,” said my 
mother anxiously. 

My father shook his head — then he took two or three turns 
about the room. 

« Shall I ring for candles, sir ? It is getting dark, you will 
wish to read ? ” 

“ No, Pisistratus, it is you who shall read ; and this hour of 
twilight best suits the book I am about to open to you. 

So saying, he drew a chair between me and my mother, and 
seated himself gravely, looking down a long time in silence — 
then turning his eyes to each of us alternately. 

“ My dear wife,” said he at length, almost solemnly, “ I am 
going to speak of myself as I was before I knew you.” 

Even in the twilight I saw that my mother’s countenance 
changed. 

“You have respected my secrets, Katherine, tenderly — 
honestly. Now the time is come when I can tell them to you 
and to our son.” 


CHAPTER V 

MY FATHER’S FIRST LOVE 

T LOST my mother early ; my father (a good man, but who 
was so indolent that he rarely stirred from his chair, and 
who often passed whole days without speaking, like an Indian 
dervish) left Roland and myself to educate ourselves much 
according to our own taste. Roland shot, and hunted, and 
fished, — read all the poetry and books of chivalry to be found 
in my father’s collection, which was rich in such matters, and 
made a great many copies of the old pedigree ; — the only thing 
in which my father ever evinced much vital interest. Early in 
life I conceived a passion for graver studies, and by good luck I 
found a tutor in Mr. Tibbets, who, but for his modesty, Kitty, 
would have rivalled Porson. He was a second Budaeus for 
industry, and by the way, he said exactly the same thing 
that Budaeus did, viz., ‘that the only lost day in his life was 
that in which he was married ; for on that day he had only had 
six hours for reading ! ’ Under such a master I could not fail to 
be a scholar. I came from the university with such distinction 
as led me to look sanguinely on my career in the world. 

" I returned to my father’s quiet rectory to pause and consider 


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what path I should take to fame. The rectory was just at the 
foot of the hill, on the brow of which were the ruins of the castle 
Roland has since purchased. And though I did not feel for the 
ruins the same romantic veneration as my dear brother (for my 
day-dreams were more coloured by classic than feudal recollec- 
tions), I yet loved to climb the hill, book in hand, and built my 
castles in the air amidst the wrecks of that which time had 
shattered on the earth. 

“One day, entering the old weed-grown court, I saw a lady 
seated on my favourite spot, sketching the ruins. The lady was 
young — more beautiful than any woman I had yet seen, at 
least to my eyes. In a word, I was fascinated, and as the trite 
phrase goes, f spell-bound.’ I seated myself at a little distance, 
and contemplated her without desiring to speak. By-and-by, 
from another part of the ruins, which were then uninhabited, 
came a tall, imposing, elderly gentleman, with a benignant 
aspect ; and a little dog. The dog ran up to me barking. 
This drew the attention of both lady and gentleman to me. 
The gentleman approached, called off the dog, and apologised 
with much politeness. Surveying me somewhat curiously, he 
then began to ask questions about the old place and the family 
it had belonged to, with the name and antecedents of which he 
was well acquainted. By degrees it came out that I was the 
descendant of that family, and the younger son of the humble 
rector who was now its representative. The gentleman then 
introduced himself to me as the Earl of Rainsforth, the principal 
proprietor in the neighbourhood, but who had so rarely visited 
the county during my childhood and earlier youth that I had 
never before seen him. His only son, however, a young man of 
great promise, had been at the same college with me in my first 
year at the university. The young lord was a reading man and 
a scholar; and we had become slightly acquainted when he 
left for his travels. 

“ Now, on hearing my name. Lord Rainsforth took my hand 
cordially, and, leading me to his daughter, said , ‘ Think, Ellinor, 
how fortunate ! — this is the Mr. Caxton whom your brother so 
often spoke of.’ 

“ In short, my dear Pisistratus, the ice was broken, the ac- 
quaintance made, and Lord Rainsforth, saying he was come to 
atone for his long absence from the county, and to reside at 
Compton the greater part of the year, pressed me to visit him. 
I did so. Lord Rainsforth’s liking to me increased ; I went 
there often.” 


1 60 


THE CAXTONS : 


My father paused, and seeing my mother had fixed her eyes 
upon him with a sort of mournful earnestness, and had pressed 
her hands very tightly together, he bent down and kissed her 
forehead. 

“ There is no cause, my child ! ” said he. It was the only 
time I ever heard him address my mother so parentally. But 
then I never heard him before so grave and solemn — not a 
quotation, too — it was incredible ; it was not my father speaking, 
it was another man. “ Yes, I went there often. Lord Rains- 
forth was a remarkable person. Shyness, that was wholly 
without pride (which is rare), and a love for quiet literary pursuits, 
had prevented his taking that personal part in public life for 
which he was richly qualified ; but his reputation for sense and 
honour, and his personal popularity, had given him no incon- 
siderable influence even, I believe, in the formation of cabinets, 
and he had once been prevailed upon to fill a high diplomatic 
situation abroad, in which I have no doubt that he was as 
miserable as a good man can be under any infliction. He was 
now pleased to retire from the world, and look at it through the 
loopholes of retreat. Lord Rainsforth had a great respect for 
talent, and a warm interest in such of the young as seemed to 
him to possess it. By talent, indeed, his family had risen, and 
were strikingly characterised. His ancestor, the first peer, 
had been a distinguished lawyer; his father had been cele- 
brated for scientific attainments ; his children, Ellinor and Lord 
Pendarvis, were highly accomplished. Thus the family identified 
themselves with the aristocracy of intellect, and seemed un- 
conscious of their claims of the lower aristocracy of rank. You 
must bear this in mind throughout my story. 

" Lady Ellinor shared her father’s tastes and habits of thought 
— (she was not then an heiress). Lord Rainsforth talked to me 
of my career. It was a time when the French Revolution had 
made statesmen look round with some anxiety to strengthen 
the existing order of things, by alliance with all in the rising 
generation who evinced such ability as might influence their 
contemporaries. 

“ University distinction is, or was formerly, among the popular 
passports to public life. By degrees. Lord Rainsforth liked 
me so well as to suggest to me a seat in the House of Commons. 
A member of Parliament might rise to anything, and Lord 
Rainsforth had sufficient influence to effect my return. Dazzling 
prospect this to a young scholar fresh from Thucydides, and 
with Demosthenes fresh at his tongue’s end. My dear boy, I 


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was not then, you see, quite what I am now ; in a word, I loved 
Ellinor Compton, and therefore I was ambitious. You know 
how ambitious she is still. But I could not mould my ambition 
to hers. I could not contemplate entering the senate of my 
country as a dependant on a party or a patron — as a man who 
must make his fortune there — as a man who, in every vote, 
must consider how much nearer he advanced himself to emolu- 
ment. I was not even certain that Lord Rainsforth’s views 
on politics were the same as mine would be. How could the 
politics of an experienced man of the world be those of an 
ardent young student ? But had they been identical, I felt that 
I could not so creep into equality with a patron’s daughter. 
No ! I was ready to abandon my own more scholastic predilec- 
tions — to strain every energy at the bar — to carve or force my 
own way to fortune — and if I arrived at independence, then — what 
then ? why, the right to speak of love, and aim at power. This 
was not the view of Ellinor Compton. The law seemed to her 
a tedious, needless drudgery : there was nothing in it to captivate 
her imagination. She listened to me with that charm which 
she yet retains, and by which she seems to identify herself with 
those who speak to her. She would turn to me with a pleading 
look when her father dilated on the brilliant prospects of a 
parliamentary success ; for he (not having gained it, yet having 
lived with those who had) overvalued it, and seemed ever to 
wish to enjoy it through some other. But when I, hi turn, 
spoke of independence, of the bar, Ellinor’s face grew overcast. 
The world — the world was with her, and the ambition of the 
world, which is always for power or effect ! A part of the house 
lay exposed to the east wind. f Plant half-way down the hill,’ 
said I one day. ‘ Plant ! ’ cried Lady Ellinor — ‘ it will be 
twenty years before the trees grow up. No, my dear father, 
build a wall, and cover it with creepers ! ’ That was an illus- 
tration of her whole character. She could not wait till trees 
had time to grow ; a dead wall would be so much more quickly 
thrown up, and parasite creepers would give it a prettier effect. 
Nevertheless, she was a grand and noble creature. And I — in 
love ! Not so discouraged as you may suppose ; for Lord Rains- 
forth often hinted encouragement, which even I could scarcely 
misconstrue. Not caring for rank, and not wishing for fortune 
beyond competence for his daughter, he saw in me all he re- 
quired — a gentleman of ancient birth, and one in whom his own 
active mind could prosecute that kind of mental ambition which 
overflowed in him, and yet had never had its vent. And 

L 


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THE CAXTONS: 


Ellinor ! — Heaven forbid I should say she loved me, — but some- 
thing made me think she could do so. Under these notions, 
suppressing all my hopes, I made a bold effort to master the 
influences round me, and to adopt that career I thought worthiest 
of us all. I went to London to read for the bar.” 

“ The bar ! is it possible ! ” cried I. My father smiled sadly. 

“Everything seemed possible to me then. I read some 
months. I began to see my way even in that short time ; began 
to comprehend what would be the difficulties before me, and 
to feel there was that within me which could master them. 
I took a holiday and returned to Cumberland. I found Roland 
there on my return. Always of a roving, adventurous temper, 
though he had not then entered the army, he had, for 
more than two years, been wandering over Great Britain and 
Ireland on foot. It was a young knight-errant whom I em- 
braced, and who overwhelmed me with reproaches that I should 
be reading for the law. There had never been a lawyer in the 
family ! It was about that time, I think, that I petrified him 
with the discovery of the printer ! I knew not exactly where- 
fore, whether from jealousy, fear, foreboding — but it certainly 
was a pain that seized me — when I learned from Roland that 
he had become intimate at Compton Hall. Roland and Lord 
Rainsforth had met at the house of a neighbouring gentleman, 
and Lord Rainsforth had welcomed his acquaintance, at first, 
perhaps, for my sake, afterwards for his own. 

“I could not for the life of me,” continued my father, “ask 
Roland if he admired Ellinor ; but when I found that he did 
not put that question to me, I trembled ! 

“We went to Compton together, speaking little by the way. 
We stayed there some days.” 

My father here thrust his hand into his waistcoat — all men 
have their little ways, which denote much ; and when my father 
thrust his hand into his waistcoat, it was always a sign of some 
mental effort — he was going to prove, or to argue, to moralise, 
or to preach. Therefore, though I was listening before with all 
my ears, I believe I had, speaking magnetically and mesmeric- 
ally, an extra pair of ears, a new sense supplied to me, when 
my father put his hand into his waistcoat. 


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163 


CHAPTER VI 


WHEREIN MY FATHER CONTINUES HIS STORY 

HPHERE is not a mystical creation, type, symbol, or poetical 
invention for meanings abstruse, recondite, and incompre- 
hensible, which is not represented by the female gender,” 
said my father, having his hand quite buried in his waistcoat. 
“ For instance, the Sphinx and Isis, whose veil no man had ever 
lifted, were both ladies, Kitty! And so was Persephone, who must 
be always either in heaven or hell — and Hecate, who was one 
thing by night and another by day. The Sibyls were females ; 
and so were the Gorgons, the Harpies, the Furies, the Fates, 
and the Teutonic Valkyrs, Nornies, and Hela herself : in short, 
all representations of ideas, obscure, inscrutable, and portentous, 
are nouns feminine.” 

Heaven bless my father ! Augustine Caxton was himself 
again ! I began to fear that the story had slipped away from 
him, lost in that labyrinth of learning. But, luckily, as he 
paused for breath, his look fell on those limpid blue eyes of my 
mother’s and that honest open brow of hers, which had certainly 
nothing in common with Sphinxes, Fates, Furies, or Valkyrs ; 
and, whether his heart smote him, or his reason made him own 
that he had fallen into a very disingenuous and unsound train 
of assertion, I know not, but his front relaxed, and with a smile 
he resumed — “ Ellinor was the last person in the world to 
deceive any one willingly. Did she deceive me and Roland, 
that we both, though not conceited men, fancied that, if we 
had dared to speak openly of love, we had not so dared in 
vain ? or do you think, Kitty, that a woman really can love (not 
much perhaps, but somewhat) two or three, or half-a-dozen at 
a time ? ” 

e< Impossible ! ” cried my mother. “ And as for this Lady 
Ellinor, I am shocked at her — I don’t know what to call it ! ” 

“Nor I either, my dear,” said my father, slowly taking his 
hand from his waistcoat, as if the effort were too much for him, 
and the problem were insoluble. “But this, begging your 
pardon, I do think, that before a young woman does really, 
truly, and cordially centre her affections on one object, she 
suffers fancy, imagination, the desire of power, curiosity, or 
Heaven knows what, to simulate even to her own mind, pale 


1 64 


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reflections of the luminary not yet risen — parhelia that precede 
the sun. Don’t judge of Roland as you see him now, Pisistratus 
— grim, and grey, and formal ; imagine a nature soaring high 
amongst daring thoughts, or exuberant with the nameless 
poetry of youthful life — with a frame matchless for bounding 
elasticity — an eye bright with haughty fire — a heart from which 
noble sentiments sprang like sparks from an anvil. Lady Ellinor 
had an ardent, inquisitive imagination. This bold, fiery nature 
must have moved her interest. On the other hand, she had an 
instructed, full, and eager mind. Am I vain if I say, now after 
the lapse of so many years, that in my mind her intellect felt 
companionship ? When a woman loves, and marries, and settles, 
why then she becomes — a one whole, a completed being. But 
a girl like Ellinor has in her many women. Various herself, all 
varieties please her. I do believe that, if either of us had 
spoken the word boldly, Lady Ellinor would have shrunk back 
to her own heart — examined it, tasked it, and given a frank and 
generous answer. And he who had spoken first might have 
had the better chance not to receive a f No.’ But neither of us 
spoke. And perhaps she was rather curious to know if she had 
made an impression, than anxious to create it. It was not that 
she willingly deceived us, but her whole atmosphere was de- 
lusion. Mists come before the sunrise. However this be, 
Roland and I were not long in detecting each other. And 
hence arose, first coldness, then jealousy, then quarrel.” 

“ Oh, my father, your love must have been indeed powerful, 
to have made a breach between the hearts of two such 
brothers ! ” 

“ Yes,” said my father, "it was amidst the old ruins of the 
castle, there, where I had first seen Ellinor — that, winding my 
arm round Roland’s neck, as I found him seated amongst the 
weeds and stones, his face buried in his hands — it was there that 
I said — ‘ Brother, we both love this woman ! My nature is the 
calmer of the two, I shall feel the loss less. Brother, shake 
hands, and God speed you, for I go ! * ” 

" Austin ! ” murmured my mother, sinking her head on my 
father’s breast. 

"And therewith we quarrelled. For it was Roland who 
insisted, while the tears rolled down his eyes, and he stamped his 
foot on the ground, that he was the intruder, the interloper — 
that he had no hope — that he had been a fool and a madman — 
and that it was for him to go ! Now, while we were disputing, 
and words began to run high, my father’s old servant entered 


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the desolate place, with a note from Lady Ellinor to me, asking 
for the loan of some book I had praised. Roland saw the hand- 
writing, and while I turned the note over and over irresolutely, 
before I broke the seal, he vanished. 

“ He did not return to my fathers house. We did not know 
what had become of him. But I, thinking over that impulsive 
volcanic nature, took quick alarm. And I went in search of 
him ; came on his track at last ; and after many days, found 
him in a miserable cottage amongst the most dreary of the 
dreary wastes which form so large a part of Cumberland. He 
was so altered I scarcely knew him. To be brief, we came at 
last to a compromise. We would go back to Compton. This 
suspense was intolerable. One of us at least should take 
courage and learn his fate. But who should speak first ? We 
drew lots, and the lot fell on me. 

“ And now that I was really to pass the Rubicon, now that I 
was to impart that secret hope which had animated me so long 
— been to me a new life — what were my sensations ? My dear 
boy, depend on it that that age is the happiest, when such 
feelings as I felt then can agitate us no more : they are mistakes 
in the serene order of that majestic life which heaven meant for 
thoughtful man. Our souls should be as stars on earth, not as 
meteors and tortured comets. What could I offer to Ellinor — 
to her father ? What but a future of patient labour ? And in 
either answer, what alternative of misery ! — my own existence 
shattered, or Roland’s noble heart ! 

“ Well, we went to Compton. In our former visits we had 
been almost the only guests. Lord Rainsforth did not much 
affect the intercourse of country squires, less educated then than 
now ; and in excuse for Ellinor and for us, we were almost the 
only men of our own age she had seen in that large dull house. 
But now the London season had broken up, the house was 
filled ; there was no longer that familiar and constant approach 
to the mistress of the Hall, which had made us like one family. 
Great ladies, fine people were round her ; a look, a smile, a 
passing word were as much as I had a right to expect. And 
the talk, too, how different ! Before, I could speak on books, — 
I was at home there ! Roland could pour forth his dreams, his 
chivalrous love for the past, his bold defiance of the unknown 
future. And Ellinor, cultivated and fanciful, could sympathise 
with both. And her father, scholar and gentleman, could 
sympathise too. But now ” 


1 66 


THE CAXTONS : 


CHAPTER VII 

WHEREIN MY FATHER BRINGS OUT HIS DENOUEMENT 

TT is no use in the world,” said my father, “ to know all the 
languages expounded in grammars and splintered up into 
lexicons, if we don’t learn the language of the world. It is a 
talk apart, Kitty,” cried my father, warming up. “ It is an 
Anaglyph — a spoken anaglyph, my dear ! If all the hieroglyphs 
of the Egyptians had been A B C to you, still if you did not 
know the anaglyph, you would know nothing of the true 
mysteries of the priests . 1 

“ Neither Roland nor I knew one symbol letter of the ana- 
glyph. Talk, talk — talk on persons we never heard of, things 
we never cared for. All we thought of importance, puerile or 
pedantic trifles — all we thought so trite and childish, the grand 
momentous business of life ! If you found a little schoolboy, on 
his half-holiday, fishing for minnows with a crooked pin, and 
you began to tell him of all the wonders of the deep, the 
laws of the tides, and the antediluvian relics of iguanodon and 
ichthyosaurus — nay, if you spoke but of pearl-fisheries and coral- 
banks, or water-kelpies and naiads, would not the little boy cry 
out peevishly, f Don’t tease me with all that nonsense ! let 
me fish in peace for my minnows.’ I think the little boy is 
right after his own way — it was to fish for minnows that he 
came out, poor child, not to hear about iguanodons and water- 
kelpies ! 

“ So the company fished for minnows, and not a word could 
we say about our pearl-fisheries and coral-banks ! And as for 
fishing for minnows ourselves, my dear boy, we should have been 
less bewildered if you had asked us to fish for a mermaid ! Do 
you see, now, one reason why I have let you go thus early into 
the world ? Well, but amongst these minnow-fishers there was 
one who fished with an air that made the minnows look larger 
than salmons. 

“ Trevanion had been at Cambridge with me. We were even 
intimate. He was a young man like myself, with his way to 
make in the world. Poor as I — of a family upon a par with 
mine — old enough, but decayed. There was, however, this 

1 The anaglyph was peculiar to the Egyptian priests — the hieroglyph 
generally known to the well-educated. 


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difference between us : he had connections in the great world — 
I had none. Like me, his chief pecuniary resource was a college 
fellowship. Now, Trevanion had established a high reputation 
at the University ; but less as a scholar, though a pretty fair 
one, than as a man to rise in life. Every faculty he had was an 
energy. He aimed at everything — lost some things — gained 
others. He was a great speaker in a debating society, a 
member of some politico-economical club. He was an eternal 
talker — brilliant, various, paradoxical, florid — different from 
what he is now. For, dreading fancy, his career since has been 
one effort to curb it. But all his mind attached itself to some- 
thing that we Englishmen call solid : it was a large mind — not, 
my dear Kit^y, like a fine whale sailing through knowledge 
from the pleasure of sailing- — but like a polypus, that puts forth 
all its feelers for the purpose of catching hold of something. 
Trevanion had gone at once to Loudon from the University : 
his reputation and his talk dazzled his connections, not unjustly. 
They made an effort — they got him into Parliament : he had 
spoken, he had succeeded. He came to Compton in the flush of 
his virgin fame. I cannot convey to you who know him now — 
with his careworn face, and abrupt dry manner, — reduced by per- 
petual gladiatorship to the skin and bone of his former self — 
what that man was when he first stepped into the arena of life. 

“You see, my listeners, that you have to recollect that we 
middle-aged folks were young then ; that is to say, we were 
as different from what we are now, as the green bough of 
summer is from the dry wood, out of which we make a ship 
or a gate-post. Neither man nor wood comes to the uses of 
life till the green leaves are stripped and the sap gone. And 
then the uses of life transform us into strange things with 
other names : the tree is a tree no more — it is a gate or a 
ship ; the youth is a youth no more, but a one-legged soldier ; 
a hollow-eyed statesman ; a scholar spectacled and slippered ! 
When Micyllus” — (here the hand slides into the waistcoat 
again!) — “when Micyllus,” said my father, “asked the cock 
that had once been Pythagoras , 1 if the affair of Troy was really 
as Homer told it, the cock replied scornfully, f How could 
Homer know anything about it ? — at that time he was a camel 
in Bactria.’ Pisistratus, according to the doctrine of Metem- 
psychosis, you might have been a Bactrian camel, when that 
which to my life was the siege of Troy saw Roland and 
Trevanion before the walls. 

1 Lucian, “ The Dream of Micyllus.” 


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THE CAXTONS : 


“ Handsome you can see that Trevanion has been ; but the 
beauty of his countenance then was in its perpetual play, its 
intellectual eagerness ; and his conversation was so discursive, 
so various, so animated, and above all, so full of the things of 
the day ! If he had been a priest of Serapis for fifty years, 
he could not have known the anaglyph better. Therefore he 
filled up every crevice and pore of that hollow society with 
his broken, inquisitive, petulant light. Therefore he was ad- 
mired, talked of, listened to ; and everybody said, f Trevanion 
is a rising man/ 

“Yet I did not do him then the justice I have done since; 
for we students and abstract thinkers are apt too much, in our 
first youth, to look to the depth of a man’s mind or knowledge, 
and not enough to the surface it may cover. There may be 
more water in a flowing stream, only four feet deep, and certainly 
more force and more health, than in a sullen pool thirty yards 
to the bottom. I did not do Trevanion justice. I did not see 
how naturally he realised Lady Ellinor’s ideal. I have said that 
she was like many women in one. Trevanion was a thousand 
men in one. He had learning to please her mind, eloquence 
to dazzle her fancy, beauty to please her eye, reputation pre- 
cisely of the kind to allure her vanity, honour and conscientious 
purpose to satisfy her judgment ; and, above all, he was ambitious; 
ambitious, not as I — not as Roland was, but ambitious as Ellinor 
was ; ambitious, not to realise some grand ideal in the silent 
heart, but to grasp the practical positive substances that lay 
without. 

“ Ellinor was a child of the great world, and so was he. 

“ I saw not all this, nor did Roland ; and Trevanion seemed to 
pay no particular court to Ellinor. 

“But the time approached when I ought to speak. The 
house began to thin. Lord Rainsforth had leisure to resume 
his easy conferences with me ; and one day, walking in his 
garden, he gave me the opportunity ; for I need not say, 
Pisistratus,” said my father, looking at me earnestly, “that 
before any man of honour, if of inferior worldly pretensions, 
will open his heart seriously to the daughter, it is his duty to 
speak first to the parent, whose confidence has imposed that 
trust.” I bowed my head, and coloured. 

“ I know not how it was,” continued my father, “ but Lord 
Rainsforth turned the conversation on Ellinor. After speaking 
of his expectations in his son, who was returning home, he said, 
"But he will of course enter public life— will, 1 trust, soon 


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marry, have a separate establishment, and I shall see but little 
of him. My Ellinor ! — I cannot bear the thought of parting 
wholly with her. And that, to say the selfish truth, is one 
reason why I have never wished her to marry a rich man, and 
so leave me for ever. I could hope that she will give herself to 
one who may be contented to reside at least great part of the 
year with me, who may bless me with another son, not steal 
from me a daughter. I do not mean that he should waste his 
life in the country ; his occupations would probably lead him to 
London. I care not where my house is — all I want is to keep 
my home. You know’ (he added, with a smile that I thought 
meaning), ‘ how often I have implied to you that I have no 
vulgar ambition for Ellinor. Her portion must be very small, 
for my estate is strictly entailed, and I have lived too much up 
to my income all my life to hope to save much now. But her 
tastes do not require expense ; and while I live, at least, there 
need be no change. She can only prefer a man whose talents, 
congenial to hers, will win their own career, and ere I die that 
career may be made/ Lord Rainsforth paused ; and then — how, 
in what words I know not — but out all burst! — my long-sup- 
pressed, timid, anxious, doubtful, fearful love. The strange 
energy it had given to a nature till then so retiring and calm ! 
My recent devotion to the law — my confidence that, with such 
a prize, I could succeed — it was but a transfer of labour from 
one study to another. Labour could conquer all things, and 
custom sweeten them in the conquest. The bar was a less 
brilliant career than the senate ; but the first aim of the poor 
man should be independence. In short, Pisistratus, wretched 
egotist that I was, I forgot Roland in that moment ; and I spoke 
as one who felt his life was in his words. 

“ Lord Rainsforth looked at me, when I had done, with a 
countenance full of affection, but it was not cheerful. 

“ ‘ My dear Caxton,’ said he tremulously, ‘ I own that I once 
wished this — wished it from the hour I knew you ; but why did 
you so long — I never suspected that — nor, I am sure, did 
Ellinor/ He stopped short, and added quickly — f However, go 
and speak, as you have spoken to me, to Ellinor. Go, it may 
not yet be too late. And yet — but go/ 

“ Too late ! — what meant those words ? Lord Rainsforth had 
turned hastily down another walk, and left me alone, to ponder 
over an answer which concealed a riddle. Slowly I took my 
way towards the house, and sought Lady Ellinor, half hoping, 
half dreading to find her alone. There was a little room com- 


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municating with a conservatory, where she usually sat in the 
morning. Thither I took my course. 

“ That room — I see it still ! — the walls covered with pictures 
from her own hand ; many were sketches of the haunts we had 
visited together — the simple ornaments, womanly but not 
effeminate — the very books on the table, that had been made 
familiar by dear associations. Yes ; there the Tasso in which we 
had read together the episode of Clorinda — there the JEschylus 
in which I translated to her the Prometheus. Pedantries these 
might seem to some ; pedantries, perhaps, they were ; but they 
were proofs of that congeniality which had knit the man of 
books to the daughter of the world. That room, it was the 
home of my heart. 

“Such, in my vanity of spirit, methought would be the air 
round a home to come. I looked about me, troubled and con- 
fused, and, halting timidly, I saw Ellinor before me, leaning her 
face on her hand, her cheek more flushed than usual, and tears 
in her eyes. I approached in silence, and as I drew my chair 
to the table, my eye fell on a glove on the floor. It was a 
man’s glove. Do you know,” said my father, “ that once, when 
I was very young, I saw a Dutch picture called The Glove, and 
the subject was of murder ? There was a weed-grown marshy 
pool, a desolate dismal landscape, that of itself inspired thoughts 
of ill deeds and terror. And two men, as if walking by chance, 
came to this pool ; the finger of one pointed to a blood- 
stained glove, and the eyes of both were fixed on each other, 
as if there were no need of words. The glove told its tale ! 
The picture had long haunted me in my boyhood, but it never 
gave me so uneasy and fearful a feeling as did that real glove 
upon the floor. Why ? My dear Pisistratus, the theory of fore- 
bodings involves one of those questions on which we may ask 
‘why’ for ever. More chilled than I had been in speaking to 
her father, I took heart at last, and spoke to Ellinor.” 

My father stopped short, the moon had risen, and was shining 
full into the room and on his face. And by that light the face 
was changed ; young emotions had brought back youth — my 
father looked a young man. But what pain was there ! If 
the memory alone could raise what, after all, was but the ghost 
of suffering, what had been its living reality ? Involuntarily 
I seized his hand ; my father pressed it convulsively, and said 
with a deep breath — ■“ It was too late ; Trevanion was Lady 
Ellinor’s accepted, plighted, happy lover. My dear Katherine, 
I do not envy him now ; look up, sweet wife, look up ! ” 





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171 


CHAPTER VIII 

JgLLINOR (let me do her justice) was shocked at my silent 
emotion. No human lip could utter more tender sympathy, 
more noble self-reproach ; but that was no balm to my wound. 
So I left the house ; so I never returned to the law ; so all 
impetus, all motive for exertion, seemed taken from my 
being ; so I went back into books. And so, a moping, de- 
spondent, worthless mourner might I have been to the end 
of my days, but that Heaven, in its mercy, sent thy mother, 
Pisistratus, across my path ; and day and night I bless God 
and her ; for I have been, and am — oh, indeed, I am, a happy 
man ! ” 

My mother threw herself on my father’s breast, sobbing 
violently, and then turned from the room without a word ; my 
father’s eye, swimming in tears, followed her ; and then, after 
pacing the room for some moments in silence, he came up to 
me, and leaning his arm on my shoulder, whispered, “ Can you 
guess why I have now told you all this, my son ? ” 

“Yes, partly; thank you, father,” I faltered, and sat down, 
for I felt faint. 

“Some sons,” said my father, seating himself beside me, 
“ would find in their father’s follies and errors an excuse for 
their own ; not so will you, Pisistratus.” 

“ I see no folly, no error, sir ; only nature and sorrow.” 

“ Pause ere you thus think,” said my father. “ Great was 
the folly and great the error, of indulging imagination that 
had no basis — of linking the whole usefulness of my life to the 
will of a human creature like myself. Heaven did not design 
the passion of love to be this tyrant ; nor is it so with the mass 
and multitude of human life. We dreamers, solitary students 
like me, or half-poets like poor Roland, make our own disease. 
How many years, even after I had regained serenity, as your 
mother gave me a home long not appreciated, have I wasted 1 The 
mainstring of my existence was snapped — I took no note of 
time. And therefore now, you see, late in life, Nemesis wakes. 
I look back with regret at powers neglected, opportunities gone. 
Galvanically I brace up energies half palsied by disuse ; and you 
see me, rather than rest quiet and good for nothing, talked into 
what, I dare say, are sad follies, by an Uncle Jack ! And now I 
behold Ellinor again ; and I say in wonder — f All this — all this — 


172 


THE CAXTONS: 


all this agony, all this torpor, for that haggard face, that worldly 
spirit ! * So is it ever in life : mortal things fade ; immortal 
things spring more freshly with every step to the tomb. 

“Ah!” continued my father, with a sigh, “it would not 
have been so, if at your age I had found out the secret of the 
saffron bag ! ” 


CHAPTER IX 

AND Roland, sir,” said I — “ how did he take it ? ” 

“With all the indignation of a proud unreasonable man. 
More indignant, poor fellow, for me than himself. And so did 
he wound and gall me by what he said of Ellinor, and so did 
he rage against me because I would not share his rage, that 
again we quarrelled. We parted, and did not meet for many years. 
We came into sudden possession of our little fortunes. His 
he devoted (as you may know) to the purchase of the old ruins, 
and the commission in the army, which had always been his 
dream — and so went his way, wrathful. My share gave me an 
excuse for indolence — it satisfied all my wants ; and when my 
old tutor died, and his young child became my ward, and, some- 
how or other, from my ward my wife, it allowed me to resign 
my fellowship, and live amongst my books — still as a book my- 
self. One comfort, somewhat before my marriage, I had 
conceived ; and that, too, Roland has since said was comfort 
to him. Ellinor became an heiress. Her poor brother died ; 
and all of the estate that did not pass in the male line devolved 
on her. That fortune made a gulf between us almost as wide 
as her marriage. For Ellinor, poor and portionless, in spite 
of her rank, I could have worked, striven, slaved; but Ellinor 
rich ! it would have crushed me. This was a comfort. But 
still, still the past — that perpetual aching sense of something 
that had seemed the essential of life withdrawn from life, ever- 
more, evermore ! What was left was not sorrow, — it was a void. 
Had I lived more with men, and less with dreams and books, I 
should have made my nature large enough to bear the loss of a 
single passion. But in solitude we shrink up. No plant so 
much as man needs the sun and the air. I comprehend now 
why most of our best and wisest men have lived in capitals ; 
and therefore again I say, that one scholar in a family is enough. 
Confiding in your sound heart and strong honour, I turn you 
thus betimes on the world. Have I done wrong ? Prove that 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


173 


1 have not, niy child. Do you know what a very good man 
has said ? Listen, and follow my precept, not example. 

“ ‘ The state of the w orld is such, and so much depends on 
action, that everything seems to say aloud to every man. Do 
something — do it — do it ! ’ ” 1 

I was profoundly touched, and I rose refreshed and hopeful, 
when suddenly the door opened, and who or what in the world 
should come in ; hut certainly he, she, it, or they, shall not 
come into this chapter ! On that point I am resolved. No, 
my dear young lady, I am extremely flattered ; — I feel for your 
curiosity ; but really not a peep — not one ! And yet — well then, 
if you will have it, and look so coaxingly — who or what, I say, 
should come in abrupt, unexpected — taking away one’s breath, 
not giving one time to say, “ By j^our leave, or with your leave,” 
but making one’s mouth stand open w r ith surprise, and one’s 
eyes fix in a big round stupid stare, but — 

THE END OF THE CHAPTER. 


1 “ Remains of the Rev. Richard Cecil,” p. 349. 


PART VIII 


CHAPTER I 

'T'HERE entered, in the front drawing-room of my father's 
house in Russell Street — an Elf ! ! ! clad in white, — small, 
delicate, with curls of jet over her shoulders ; — with eyes so 
large and so lustrous that they shone through the room, as no 
eyes merely human could possibly shine. The Elf approached, 
and stood facing us. The sight was so unexpected, and the 
apparition so strange, that we remained for some moments in 
startled silence. At length my father, as the bolder and wiser 
man of the two, and the more fitted to deal with the eerie 
things of another world, had the audacity to step close up to 
the little creature, and bending down to examine its face, said, 
“ What do you want, my pretty child ? ” 

Pretty child ! was it only a pretty child after all ? Alas, it 
would be well if all we mistake for fairies at the first glance 
could resolve themselves only into pretty children ! 

“Come,” answered the child with a foreign accent, and 
taking my father by the lappet of his coat, “come, poor papa 
is so ill ! I am frightened ! come — and save him.” 

“ Certainly,” exclaimed my father quickly ; “ where’s my hat, 
Sisty ? Certainly, my child, we will go and save papa.” 

“ But who is papa ? ” asked Pisistratus — a question that would 
never have occurred to my father. He never asked who or 
what the sick papas of poor children were, when the children 
pulled him by the lappet of his coat — “ Who is papa ? ” 

The child looked hard at me, and the big tears rolled from 
those large luminous eyes, but quite silently. At this moment 
a full-grown figure filled up the threshold, and emerging 
from the shadow, presented to us the aspect of a stout, well- 
favoured young woman. She dropped a curtsey, and then said, 
mincingly — 

“ Oh, miss, you ought to have waited for me, and not alarmed 
the gentlefolks by running upstairs in that way. If you please, 

174 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


175 


sir, I was settling with the cabman, and he was so imperent : 
them low fellows always are, when they have only us poor 
women to deal with, sir— and ” 

“ But what is the matter?” cried I, for my father had taken 
the child in his arms, soothingly, and she was now weeping on 
his breast. 

" Why, you see, sir (another curtsey), the gent only arrived 
last night at our hotel, sir, — the Lamb, close by Lunnun Bridge 
— and he was taken ill — and he’s not quite in his right mind 
like : — so we sent for the doctor, and the doctor looked at the 
brass plate on the gent’s carpet-bag, sir, — and he then looked 
into the Court Guide , and he said, ‘ There is a Mr. Caxton in 
Great Russell Street, — is he any relation ? ’ and this young lady 
said, ‘ That’s my papa’s brother, and we were going there.’ 
And so, sir, as the Boots was out, I got into a cab, and miss 
would come with me, and ” 

“ Roland — Roland ill! Quick — quick, quick!” cried my 
father, and, with the child still in his arms, he ran down the 
stairs. I followed with his hat, which of course he had for- 
gotten. A cab, by good luck, was passing our very door ; but 
the chambermaid would not let us enter it till she had satisfied 
herself that it was not the same she had dismissed. This 
preliminary investigation completed, we entered, and drove to 
the Lamb. 

The chambermaid, who sate opposite, passed the time in in- 
effectual overtures to relieve my father of the little girl, who 
still clung nestling to his breast, — in a long epic, much broken 
into episodes, of the causes which had led to her dismissal of 
the late cabman, who, to swell his fare, had thought proper to 
take a “ circumbendibus ! ” — and with occasional tugs at her 
cap, and smoothings down of her gown, and apologies for being 
such a figure, especially when her eyes rested on my satin 
cravat, or drooped on my shining boots. 

Arrived at the Lamb, the chambermaid, with a conscious 
dignity, led us up a large staircase, which seemed interminable. 
As she mounted the region above the third storey, she paused to 
take breath, and inform us, apologetically, that the house was 
full, but that, if the “gent” stayed over Friday, he would be 
moved into No. 54, “ with a look-out and a chimbly.” My little 
cousin now slipped from my father’s arms, and, running up the 
stairs, beckoned to us to follow. We did so, and were led to a 
door, at which the child stopped and listened ; then, taking off 
her shoes, she stole in on tiptoe. We entered after her. 


176 


THE CAXTONS : 


By the light of a single candle we saw my poor uncle’s face ; 
it was flushed with fever, and the eyes had that bright, vacant 
stare which it is so terrible to meet. Less terrible is it to find 
the body wasted, the features sharp with the great life-struggle, 
than to look on the face from which the mind is gone, — the 
eyes in which there is no recognition. Such a sight is a 
startling shock to that unconscious habitual materialism with 
which we are apt familiarly to regard those we love : for, in 
thus missing the mind, the heart, the affection that sprang to 
ours, we are suddenly made aware that it was the something 
within the form, and not the form itself, that was so dear to us. 
The form itself is still, perhaps, little altered ; but that lip 
which smiles no welcome, that eye which wanders over us as 
strangers, that ear which distinguishes no more our voices, — the 
friend we sought is not there ! Even our own love is chilled 
back — grows a kind of vague superstitious terror. Yes, it was 
not the matter, still present to us, which had conciliated all 
those subtle nameless sentiments which are classed and fused 
in the word “ affection ,’* — it was the airy, intangible, electric 
something , — the absence of which now appals us. 

I stood speechless — my father crept on, and took the hand 
that returned no pressure — the child only did not seem to 
share our emotions, but, clambering on the bed, laid her cheek 
on the breast, and was still. 

“ Pisistratus,” whispered my father, at last, and I stole near, 
hushing my breath , — “ Pisistratus, if your mother were here ! ” 

I nodded : the same thought had struck us both. His deep 
wisdom, my active youth, both felt their nothingness then and 
there. In the sick chamber, both turned helplessly to miss 
the woman. 

So I stole out, descended the stairs, and stood in the open 
air in a sort of stunned amaze. Then the tramp of feet, and 
the roll of wheels, and the great London roar, revived me. 
That contagion of practical life which lulls the heart and stimu- 
lates the brain, — what an intellectual mystery there is in its 
common atmosphere ! In another moment I had singled out, 
like an inspiration, from a long file of those ministrants of our 
Trivia, the cab of the lightest shape and with the strongest 
horse, and was on my way, not to my mother’s but to Dr. 

M H , Manchester Square, whom I knew as the medical 

adviser to the Trevanions. Fortunately, that kind and able 
physician was at home, and he promised to be with the sufferer 
before I myself could join him. I then drove to Russell Street, 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


177 


and broke to my mother, as cautiously as I could, the intelligence 
with which I was charged. 

When we arrived at the Lamb, we found the doctor already 
writing his prescription and injunctions : the activity of the 
treatment announced the danger. I flew r for the surgeon who 
had been before called in. Happy those who are strange to 
that indescribable silent bustle which the sick-room at times 
presents — that conflict which seems almost hand to hand between 
life and death — when all the poor, unresisting, unconscious 
frame is given up to the war against its terrible enemy ; the dark 
blood flowing — flowing ; the hand on the pulse, the hushed 
suspense, every look on the physician’s bended brow ; then the 
sinaplasms to the feet, and the ice to the head ; and now and 
then, through the lull of the low whispers, the incoherent voice 
of the sufferer — babbling, perhaps, of green fields and fairyland, 
while your hearts are breaking ! Then, at length, the sleep — 
in that sleep, perhaps, the crisis — the breathless watch, the 
slow waking, the first sane words— the old smile again, only 
fainter — your gushing tears, your low “ Thank God ! thank 
God ! ” 

Picture all this ; it is past : Roland has spoken — his sense has 
returned — my mother is leaning over him — his child’s small 
hands are clasped round his neck — the surgeon, who has been 
there six hours, has taken up his hat, and smiles gaily as he 
nods farewell — and my father is leaning against the wall, his 
face covered with his hands. 


CHAPTER II 

ALL this had been so sudden that, to use the trite phrase — 
for no other is so expressive — it was like a dream. I felt 
an absolute, an imperious want of solitude, of the open air. 
The swell of gratitude almost stifled me — the room did not 
seem large enough for my big heart. In early youth, if we find 
it difficult to control our feelings, so we find it difficult to vent 
them in the presence of others. On the spring side of twenty, 
if anything affects us, we rush to lock ourselves up in our room, 
or get away into the streets or fields ; in our earlier years we 
are still the savages of Nature, and we do as the poor brute 
does, — the wounded stag leaves the herd, and if there is any- 
thing on a dog’s faithful heart, he slinks away into a corner. 


M 


178 


THE CAXTONS: 


Accordingly, I stole out of the hotel, and wandered through 
the streets, which were quite deserted. It was about the first 
hour of dawn, the most comfortless hour there is, especially in 
London ! But I only felt freshness in the raw air, and soothing 
in the desolate stillness. The love my uncle inspired was very 
remarkable in its nature : it was not like that quiet affection 
with which those advanced in life must usually content them- 
selves, but connected with the more vivid interest that youth 
awakens. There was in him still so much of vivacity and fire, 
in his errors and crotchets so much of the self-delusion of youth, 
that one could scarce fancy him other than young. Those 
Quixotic exaggerated notions of honour, that romance of senti- 
ment, which no hardship, care, grief, disappointment, could wear 
away (singular in a period when, at two-and-twenty, young men 
declare themselves biases /) seemed to leave him all the charm 
of boyhood. A season in London had made me more a man of 
the world, older in heart than he was. Then, the sorrow that 
gnawed him with such silent sternness. No, Captain Roland was 
one of those men who seize hold of your thoughts, who mix 
themselves up with your lives. The idea that Roland should 
die — die with the load at his heart unlightened, was one that 
seemed to take a spring out of the wheels of nature, an object 
out of the aims of life — of my life at least. For I had made it 
one of the ends of my existence to bring back the son to the 
father, and restore the smile that must have been gay once, to 
the downward curve of that iron lip. But Roland was now out 
of danger, — and yet, like one who has escaped shipwreck, I 
trembled to look back on the danger past ; the voice of the 
devouring deep still boomed in my ears. While rapt in my 
reveries, I stopped mechanically to hear a clock strike — four ; 
and, looking round, I perceived that I had wandered from the 
heart of the City, and was in one of the streets that lead out 
of the Strand. Immediately before me, on the doorsteps of a 
large shop whose closed shutters wore as obstinate a stillness as 
if they had guarded the secrets of seventeen centuries in a 
street in Pompeii, — reclined a form fast asleep ; the arm propped 
on the hard stone supporting the head, and the limbs uneasily 
strewn over the stairs. The dress of the slumberer was travel- 
stained, tattered, yet with the remains of a certain pretence : 
an air of faded, shabby, penniless gentility made poverty more 
painful, because it seemed to indicate unfitness to grapple with 
it. The face of this person was hollow and pale, but its ex- 
pression, even in sleep, was fierce and hard. I drew near and 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


179 


nearer ; I recognised the countenance, the regular features, the 
raven hair, even a peculiar gracefulness of posture : the young 
man whom I had met at the inn by the wayside, and who had 
left me alone with the Savoyard and his mice in the churchyard, 
was before me. I remained behind the shadow of one of the 
columns of the porch, leaning against the area rails, and irre- 
solute whether or not so slight an acquaintance justified me in 
waking the sleeper, when a policeman, suddenly emerging from 
an angle in the street, terminated my deliberations with the 
decision of his practical profession ; for he laid hold of the 
young man’s arm and shook it roughly, — “You must not lie 
here ; get up and go home ! ” The sleeper woke with a quick 
start, rubbed his eyes, looked round, and fixed them upon the 
policeman so haughtily, that that discriminating functionary 
probably thought that it was not from sheer necessity that so 
improper a couch had been selected, and with an air of greater 
respect he said, “You have been drinking, young man, — can 
you find your way home ? ” 

“Yes,” said the youth, resettling himself, “you see I have 
found it ! ” 

“ By the Lord Harry ! ” muttered the policeman, “ if he ben’t 
going to sleep again ! Come, come, walk on, or I must walk 
you off.” 

My old acquaintance turned round. “ Policeman,” said he, 
with a strange sort of smile, “ what do you think this lodging is 
worth ? — I don’t say for the night, for you see that is over, but 
for the next two hours ? The lodging is primitive, but it suits 
me ; I should think a shilling would be a fair price for it — eh ? ” 

“ You love your joke, sir,” said the policeman, with a brow 
much relaxed, and opening his hand mechanically. 

“ Say a shilling, then — it is a bargain ! I hire it of you upon 
credit. Good night, and call me at six o’clock.” 

With that the young man settled himself so resolutely, and 
the policeman’s face exhibited such bewilderment, that I burst 
out laughing, and came from my hiding-place. 

The policeman looked at me. “ Do you know this — this ” 

“This gentleman?” said I gravely. “Yes, you may leave 
him to me ; ” and I slipped the price of the lodging into the 
policeman’s hand. He looked at the shilling — he looked at me 
— he looked up the street and down the street — shook his head, 
and walked off I then approached the youth, touched him, 
and said — “Can you remember me, sir; and what have you 
done with Mr. Peacock?” 


180 


THE CAXTONS: 


Stranger (after a pause). — “ I remember you ; your name is 
Caxton.” 

Pisistratus. — “ And yours ? ” 

Stranger . — “ Poor devil, if you ask my pockets — pockets, 
which are the symbols of man ; Dare-devil, if you ask my heart. 
(Surveying me from head to foot) — The world seems to have 
smiled on you, Mr. Caxton ! Are you not ashamed to speak to 
a wretch lying on the stones ? — but, to be sure, no one sees 
you/’ 

Pisistratus (sententiously). — “ Had I lived in the last century, 
I might have found Samuel Johnson lying on the stones.” 

Stranger (rising). — “You have spoilt my sleep; you had a 
right, since you paid for the lodging. Let me walk with you a 
few paces ; you need not fear — I do not pick pockets — yet ! ” 

Pisistratus. — “ You say the world has smiled on me ; I fear it 
has frowned on you. I don’t say f courage,’ for you seem to 
have enough of that ; but I say ‘patience,’ which is the rarer 
quality of the two.” 

Stranger. — “ Hem ! ” (again looking at me keenly) “ Why is 
it that you stop to speak to me — one of whom you know 
nothing, or worse than nothing ? ” 

Pisistratus. — “ Because I have often thought of you ; because 
you interest me ; because — pardon me — I would help you if I 
can — that is, if you want help.” 

Stranger. — “ Want ! I am one want ! I want sleep — I want 
food : — I want the patience you recommend — patience to starve 
and rot. I have travelled from Paris to Boulogne on foot, with 
twelve sous in my pocket. Out of those twelve sous in my 
pocket I saved four ; with the four I went to a billiard-room at 
Boulogne ; I won just enough to pay my passage and buy three 
rolls. You see I only require capital in order to make a fortune. 
If with four sous I can win ten francs in a night, what could I 
win with a capital of four sovereigns, and in the course of a 
year? — that is an application of the Rule of Three which my 
head aches too much to calculate just at present. Well, those 
three rolls have lasted me three days ; the last crumb went for 
supper last night. Therefore, take care how you offer me 
money (for that is what men mean by help). You see I have 
no option but to take it. But I warn you, don’t expect 
gratitude ! — I have none in me ! ” 

Pisistratus. — “Y ou are not so bad as you paint yourself. I 
would do something more for you if I can, than lend you the 
little I have to offer. Will you be frank with me ? ” 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


181 


Stranger. — “ That depends — I have been frank enough 
hitherto, I think.” 

Pisistratus. — “T rue; so I proceed without scruple. Don’t 
tell me your name or your condition, if you object to such con- 
fidence ; but tell me if you have relations to whom you can 
apply ? You shake your head : well, then, are you willing to 
work for yourself? or is it only at the billiard-table (pardon me) 
that you can try to make four sous produce ten francs ? ” 

Stranger (musing). — “ I understand you. I have never 
worked yet — I abhor work. But I have no objection to try if 
it is in me.” 

Pisistratus. — “ It is in you : a man who can walk from Paris 
to Boulogne with twelve sous in his pocket, and save four for a 
purpose — who can stake those four on the cool confidence in 
his own skill, even at billiards — who can subsist for three days on 
three rolls — and who, on the fourth day, can wake from the stones 
of a capital with an eye and a spirit as proud as yours, has in 
him all the requisites to subdue fortune.” 

Stranger. — “ Do you work ? — you ? ” 

Pisistratus. — “Y es — and hard.” 

Stranger. — “ I am ready to work, then.” 

Pisistratus. — “ Good. Now, what can you do ? ” 

Stranger (with his odd smile). — “ Many things useful. I 
can split a bullet on a penknife ; I know the secret tierce of 
Coulon, the fencing-master ; I can speak two languages (besides 
English) like a native, even to their slang ; I know every game 
in the cards ; I can act comedy, tragedy, farce ; I can drink 
down Bacchus himself ; I can make any woman I please in love 
with me — that is, any woman good-for-nothing. Can I earn a 
handsome livelihood out of all this — wear kid gloves and set up 
a cabriolet ? You see my wishes are modest ! ” 

Pisistratus. — “Y ou speak two languages, ~ou say, like a 
native — French, I suppose, is one of them ? ” 

Stranger. — “ Yes.” 

Pisistratus. — “ Will you teach it ? ” 

Stranger (haughtily). — “ No. Je suis gentilhomme, which 
means more or less than a gentleman. Gentilhomme means well 
born, because free born — teachers are slaves ! ” 

Pisistratus (unconsciously imitating Mr. Trevanion). — “Stuff!” 
Stranger (looks angry, and then laughs). — “Very true : stilts 
don’t suit shoes like these ! But I cannot teach ; Heaven help 
those / should teach ! — anything else ? ” 

Pisistratus. — “ Anything else ! — you leave me a wide margin. 


182 


THE CAXTONS : 


You know French thoroughly — to write as well as speak ? — that 
is much. Give me some address where I can find you — or will 
you call on me ? ” 

Stranger. — “ No ! Any evening at dusk I will meet you. 
I have no address to give ; and I cannot show these rags at 
another man’s door.” 

Pisistratus. — “At nine in the evening, then, and here in 
the Strand, on Thursday next. 1 may then have found some- 
thing that will suit you. Meanwhile ” (slides his purse into 

the Stranger’s hand. N.B. — Purse not very full). 

Stranger, with the air of one conferring a favour, pockets the 
purse ; and there is something so striking in the very absence 
of all emotion at so accidental a rescue from starvation, that 
Pisistratus exclaims — 

“ I don’t know why I should have taken this fancy to you, 
Mr. Daredevil, if that be the name that pleases you best. The 
wood you are made of seems cross-grained, and full of knots ; 
and yet, in the hands of a skilful carver, I think it would be 
worth much.” 

Stranger (startled). — “ Do you ? do you ? None, I believe, 
ever thought that before. But the same wood, I suppose, that 
makes the gibbet, could make the mast of a man-of-war. I 
tell you, however, why you have taken this fancy to me — the 
strong sympathise with the strong. You, too, could subdue 
fortune ! ” 

Pisistratus. — “Stop; if so — if there is congeniality between 
us, then liking should be reciprocal. Come, say that ; for half 
my chance of helping you is in my power to touch your heart.” 

Stranger (evidently softened). — “If I were as great a rogue 
as I ought to be, my answer would be easy enough. As it is, 
I delay it. Adieu. — On Thursday.” 

Stranger vanishes in the labyrinth of alleys round Leicester 
Square. 


CHAPTER III 

YAN my return to the Lamb, I found that my uncle was in a 
^ soft sleep ; and after a morning visit from the surgeon, and 
his assurance that the fever was fast subsiding, and all cause for 
alarm was gone, I thought it necessary to go back to Trevanion’s 
house, and explain the reason for my night’s absence. But the 
family had not returned from the country. Trevanion himself 


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came up for a few hours in the afternoon, and seemed to feel 
much for my poor uncle’s illness. Though, as usual, very busy, 
he accompanied me to the Lamb, to see my father, and cheer 
him up. Roland still continued to mend, as the surgeon phrased 
it ; and as we went back to St. James’s Square, Trevanion had 
the consideration to release me from my oar in his galley for 
the next few days. My mind, relieved from my anxiety for 
Roland, now turned to my new friend. It had not been without 
an object that I had questioned the young man as to his know- 
ledge of French. Trevanion had a large correspondence in 
foreign countries which was carried on in that language, and 
here I could be but of little help to him. He himself, though 
he spoke and wrote French with fluency and grammatical correct- 
ness, wanted that intimate knowledge of the most delicate and 
diplomatic of all languages to satisfy his classical purism. For 
Trevanion was a terrible word-weigher. His taste was the plague 
of my life and his own. His prepared speeches (or rather 
perorations) were the most finished pieces of cold diction that 
could be conceived under the marble portico of the Stoics, — so 
filed and turned, trimmed and tamed, that they never admitted 
a sentence that could warm the heart, or one that could offend 
the ear. He had so great a horror of a vulgarism that, like 
Canning, he would have made a periphrasis of a couple of lines, 
to avoid using the word “ cat.” It was only in extempore 
speaking that a ray of his real genius could indiscreetly betray 
itself. One may judge what labour such a super-refinement of 
taste would inflict upon a man writing in a language not his 
own to some distinguished statesman, or some literary institu- 
tion, — knowing that language just well enough to recognise all 
the native elegances he failed to attain. Trevanion, at that 
very moment, was employed upon a statistical document in- 
tended as a communication to a Society at Copenhagen, of 
which he was an honorary member. It had been for three 
weeks the torment of the whole house, especially of poor Fanny 
(whose French was the best at our joint disposal). But Trevanion 
had found her phraseology too mincing, too effeminate, too much 
that of the boudoir. Here, then, was an opportunity to intro- 
duce my new friend, and test the capacities that I fancied he 
possessed. I therefore, though with some hesitation, led the 
subject to “ Remarks on the Mineral Treasures of Great Britain 
and Ireland ” (such was the title of the work intended to 
enlighten the savaus of Denmark) ; and, by certain ingenious 
circumlocutions, known to all able applicants, I introduced my 


184 


THE CAXTONS : 


acquaintance with a young gentleman who possessed the most 
familiar and intimate knowledge of French, and who might be 
of use in revising the manuscript. I knew enough of Trevanion 
to feel that I could not reveal the circumstances under which I 
had formed that acquaintance, for he was much too practical a 
man not to have been frightened out of his wits at the idea of 
submitting so classical a performance to so disreputable a scape- 
grace. As it was, however, Trevanion, whose mind at that 
moment was full of a thousand other things, caught at my 
suggestion, with very little cross-questioning on the subject, 
and before he left London, consigned the manuscript to my 
charge. 

“ My friend is poor,” said I timidly. 

“Oh ! as to that,” cried Trevanion hastily, “if it be a matter 
of charity, I put my purse in your hands; but don't put my 
manuscript in his ! If it be a matter of business, it is another 
affair ; and I must judge of his work before I can say how much 
it is worth — perhaps nothing ! ” 

So ungracious was this excellent man in his very virtues ! 

“Nay,” said I, “it is a matter of business, and so we will 
consider it.” 

“ In that case,” said Trevanion, concluding the matter, and 
buttoning his pockets, “if I dislike his work, nothing ; if I like 
it, twenty guineas. Where are the evening papers ? ” and in 
another moment the member of Parliament had forgotten the 
statist, and was pishing and tutting over the Globe or the Sun. 

On Thursday, my uncle was well enough to be moved into 
our house ; and on the same evening, I went forth to keep my 
appointment with the stranger. The clock struck nine as we 
met. The palm of punctuality might be divided between us. 
He had profited by the interval, since our last meeting, to re- 
pair the more obvious deficiencies of his wardrobe ; and though 
there was something still wild, dissolute, outlandish, about his 
whole appearance, yet in the elastic energy of his step, and the 
resolute assurance of his bearing, there was that which Nature 
gives to her own aristocracy, — for, as far as my observation goes, 
what has been called the “grand air” (and which is wholly 
distinct from the polish of manner or the urbane grace of high 
breeding) is always accompanied, and perhaps produced, by two 
qualities — courage, and the desire of command. It is more 
common to a half-savage nature than to one wholly civilised. 
The Arab has it, so has the American Indian ; and I suspect 
that it was more frequent among the knights and barons of the 


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185 


Middle Ages than it is among the polished gentlemen of the 
modern drawing-room. 

We shook hands, and walked on a few moments in silence; 
at length thus commenced the Stranger — 

“ You have found it more difficult, I fear, than you imagined, 
to make the empty sack stand upright. Considering that at least 
one-third of those born to work cannot find it, why should I ? 55 

Piststratus. — “ I am hard-hearted enough to believe that 
work never fails to those who seek it in good earnest. It was 
said of some man, famous for keeping his word, that ‘ if he had 
promised you an acorn, and all the oaks in England failed to 
produce one, he would have sent to Norway for an acorn . 5 If 
I wanted work, and there was none to be had in the Old World, 
I would find my way to the New. But to the point : I have 
found something for you, which I do not think your taste will 
oppose, and which may open to you the means of an honourable 
independence. But I cannot well explain it in the streets ; 
where shall we go ? 55 

Stranger (after some hesitation ). — “ I have a lodging near 
here, which I need not blush to take you to — I mean, that it 
is not among rogues and castaways . 55 

Pisistratus (much pleased, and taking the Stranger’s arm). — 
“ Come, then . 55 

Pisistratus and the Stranger pass over Waterloo Bridge, and 
pause before a small house of respectable appearance. Stranger 
admits them both with a latch-key — leads the way to the third 
storey — strikes a light, and does the honours to a small chamber, 
clean and orderly. Pisistratus explains the task to be done, and 
opens the manuscript. The Stranger draws his chair deliberately 
towards the light, and runs his eye rapidly over the pages. 
Pisistratus trembles to see him pause before a long array of 
figures and calculations. Certainly it does not look inviting; 
but, pshaw ! it is scarcely a part of the task which limits itself 
to the mere correction of words. 

Stranger (briefly). — “ There must be a mistake here — stay ! — 

I see ” (He turns back a few pages, and corrects with rapid 

precision an error in a somewhat complicated and abstruse 
calculation.) 

Pisistratus (surprised ). — “ You seem a notable arithmetician . 55 

Stranger. — “ Did I not tell you that I was skilful in all games 
of mingled skill and chance ? It requires an arithmetical head 
for that: a first-rate card-player is a financier spoilt. I am 
certain that you never could find a man fortunate on the turf. 


186 


THE CAXTONS: 


or at the gaming-table, who had not an excellent head for figures. 
Well, this French is good enough apparently ; there are but 
a few idioms, here and there, that, strictly speaking, are more 
English than French. But the whole is a work scarce worth 
paying for ! ” 

Pisistratus. — “ The work of the head fetches a price not pro- 
portioned to the quantity, but the quality. When shall I call 
for this ? ” 

Stranger. — “To-morrow.” (And he puts the manuscript 

away in a drawer.) 

We then conversed on various matters for nearly an hour; 
and my impression of this young man’s natural ability was con- 
firmed and heightened. But it was an ability as wrong and 
perverse in its directions or instincts as a French novelist’s. He 
seemed to have, to a high degree, the harder portion of the 
reasoning faculty, but to be almost wholly without that arch 
beautifier of character, that sweet purifier of mere intellect — the 
imagination. For, though we are too much taught to be on our 
guard against imagination, I hold it, with Captain Roland, to be 
the divinest kind of reason we possess, and the one that leads 
us the least astray. In youth, indeed, it occasions errors, but 
they are not of a sordid or debasing nature. Newton says that 
one final effect of the comets is to recruit the seas and the 
planets by a condensation of the vapours and exhalations 
therein ; and so even the erratic flashes of an imagination really 
healthful and vigorous deepen our knowledge and brighten our 
lights ; they recruit our seas and our stars. Of such flashes my 
new friend was as innocent as the sternest matter-of-fact person 
could desire. Fancies he had in profusion, and very bad ones : 
but of imagination not a scintilla ! His mind was one of those 
which live in a prison of logic, and cannot, or will not, see 
beyond the bars : such a nature is at once positive and sceptical. 
This boy had thought proper to decide at once on the numberless 
complexities of the social world from his own harsh experience. 
With him the whole system was a war and a cheat. If the 
universe were entirely composed of knaves, he would be sure 
to have made his way. Now this bias of mind, alike shrewd and 
unamiable, might be safe enough if accompanied by a lethargic 
temper ; but it threatened to become terrible and dangerous in 
one who, in default of imagination, possessed abundance of 
passion : and this was the case with the young outcast. Passion, 
in him, comprehended many of the worst emotions which militate 
against human happiness. You could not contradict him, but 


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187 


you raised quick choler ; you could not speak of wealth, but the 
cheek paled with gnawing envy. The astonishing natural ad- 
vantages of this poor boy — his beauty, his readiness, the daring 
spirit that breathed around him like a fiery atmosphere — had 
raised his constitutional self-confidence into an arrogance that 
turned his very claims to admiration into prejudices against him. 
Irascible, envious, arrogant — bad enough, but not the worst, for 
these salient angles were all varnished over with a cold repellent 
cynicism — his passions vented themselves in sneers. There 
seemed in him no moral susceptibility ; and, what was more 
remarkable in a proud nature, little or nothing of the true point 
of honour. He had, to a morbid excess, that desire to rise, 
which is vulgarly called ambition, but no apparent wish for 
fame, or esteem, or the love of his species ; only the hard wish 
to succeed, not shine, not serve, — succeed that he might have 
the right to despise a world which galled his self-conceit, and 
enjoy the pleasures which the redundant nervous life in him 
seemed to crave. Such were the more patent attributes of a 
character that, ominous as it was, yet interested me, and yet 
appeared to me to be redeemable, — nay, to have in it the rude 
elements of a certain greatness. Ought we not to make some- 
thing great out of a youth under twenty, who has, in the highest 
degree, quickness to conceive and courage to execute ? On the 
other hand, all faculties that can make greatness, contain those 
that can attain goodness. In the savage Scandinavian, or the 
ruthless Frank, lay the germs of a Sidney or a Bayard. What 
would the best of us be, if he were suddenly placed at war with 
the whole world ? And this fierce spirit was at war with the 
whole world — a war self-sought, perhaps, but it was war not 
the less. You must surround the savage with peace, if you 
want the virtues of peace. 

I cannot say that it was in a single interview and conference 
that I came to these convictions ; but I am rather summing up 
the impressions which I received as I saw more of this person, 
whose destiny I presumed to take under my charge. 

In going away, I said, “ But, at all events, you have a name 
in your lodgings ; whom am I to ask for when I call to- 
morrow ? ” 

“Oh, you may know my name now,” said he, smiling; “it is 
Vivian — Francis Vivian.” 


188 


THE CAXTONS : 


CHAPTER IV 

T REMEMBER one morning, when a boy, loitering by an old 
wall, to watch the operations of a garden spider, whose web 
seemed to be in great request. When I first stopped, she was 
engaged very quietly with a fly of the domestic species, whom 
she managed with ease and dignity. But just when she was 
most interested in that absorbing employment, came a couple 
of May-flies, and then a gnat, and then a blue-bottle, — all at 
different angles of the web. Never was a poor spider so dis- 
tracted by her good fortune ! She evidently did not know 
which godsend to take first. The aboriginal victim being re- 
leased, she slid half-way towards the May-flies ; then one of her 
eight eyes caught sight of the blue-bottle ! and she shot off in 
that direction : — when the hum of the gnat again diverted her ; 
and in the middle of this perplexity, pounce came a young 
wasp in a violent passion ! Then the spider evidently lost her 
presence of mind ; she became clean demented : and after 
standing, stupid and stock-still, in the middle of her meshes, 
for a minute or two, she ran off to her hole as fast as she could 
run, and left her guests to shift for themselves. I confess that 
I am somewhat in the dilemma of the attractive and amiable 
insect I have just described. I got on well enough while I had 
only my domestic fly to see after. But now that there is some- 
thing fluttering at every end of my net (and especially since 
the advent of that passionate young wasp, who is fuming and 
buzzing in the nearest corner !) I am fairly at a loss which I 
should first grapple with — and alas ! unlike the spider, I have 
no hole where I can hide myself, and let the web do the 
weaver’s work. But I will imitate the spider as far as I can ; 
and while the rest hum and struggle away their impatient, 
unnoticed hour, I will retreat into the inner labyrinth of my 
own life. 

The illness of my uncle, and my renewed acquaintance with 
Vivian, had naturally sufficed to draw my thoughts from the 
rash and unpropitious love I had conceived for Fanny Trevanion. 
During the absence of the family from London (and they stayed 
some time longer than had been expected), I had leisure, how- 
ever, to recall my father’s touching history, and the moral it 
had so obviously preached to me ; and I formed so many good 
resolutions, that it was with an untrembling hand that I welcomed 


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Miss Trevanion at last to London, and with a firm heart that 
I avoided, as much as possible, the fatal charm of her society. 
The slow convalescence of my uncle gave me a just excuse to 
discontinue our rides. What time Trevanion spared me, it 
was natural that I should spend with my family. I went to no 
balls nor parties. I even absented myself from Trevanion’s 
periodical dinners. Miss Trevanion at first rallied me on my 
seclusion, with her usual lively malice. But I continued worthily 
to complete my martyrdom. I took care that no reproachful look 
at the gaiety that wrung my soul should betray my secret. 
Then Fanny seemed either hurt or disdainful, and avoided 
altogether entering her father’s study ; all at once, she changed 
her tactics and was seized with a strange desire for knowledge, 
which brought her into the room to look for a book, or ask a 
question, ten times a day. I was proof to all. But, to speak 
truth, I was profoundly wretched. Looking back now, I am 
dismayed at the remembrance of my own sufferings : my health 
became seriously affected ; I dreaded alike the trial of the day 
and the anguish of the night. My only distractions were in 
my visits to Vivian, and my escape to the dear circle of home. 
And that home was my safeguard and preservative in that crisis 
of my life ; its atmosphere of unpretending honour and serene 
virtue strengthened all my resolutions ; it braced me for my 
struggles against the strongest passion which youth admits, and 
counteracted the evil vapours of that air in which Vivian’s 
envenomed spirit breathed and moved. Without the influence 
of such a home, if I had succeeded in the conduct that probity 
enjoined towards those in whose house I was a trusted guest, 
I do not think I could have resisted the contagion of that malign 
and morbid bitterness against fate and the world, which love, 
thwarted by fortune, is too inclined of itself to conceive, and 
in the expression of which Vivian was not without the eloquence 
that belongs to earnestness, whether in truth or falsehood. But, 
somehow or other, I never left the little room that contained 
the grand suffering in the face of the veteran soldier, whose 
lip, often quivering with anguish, was never heard to murmur ; 
and the tranquil wisdom which had succeeded my father’s early 
trials (trials like my own), and the loving smile on my mother’s 
tender face, and the innocent childhood of Blanche (by which 
name the Elf had familiarised herself to us), whom I already 
loved as a sister, — without feeling that those four walls con- 
tained enough to sweeten the world, had it been filled to its 
capacious brim with gall and hyssop. 


190 


THE CAXTONS : 


Trevanion had been more than satisfied with Vivian’s perform- 
ance — he had been struck with it. For though the corrections 
in the mere phraseology had been very limited, they went beyond 
verbal amendments — they suggested such words as improved 
the thoughts ; and, besides that notable correction of an arith- 
metical error, which Trevanion’s mind was formed to over- 
appreciate, one or two brief annotations on the margin were 
boldly hazarded, prompting some stronger link in a chain of 
reasoning, or indicating the necessity for some further evidence 
in the assertion of a statement. And all this from the mere 
natural and naked logic of an acute mind, unaided by the 
smallest knowledge of the subject treated of! Trevanion threw 
quite enough work into Vivian’s hands, and at a remuneration 
sufficiently liberal to realise my promise of an independence. 
And more than once he asked me to introduce to him my 
friend. But this I continued to elude — Heaven knows, not 
from jealousy, but simply because I feared that Vivian’s manner 
and way of talk would singularly displease one who detested 
presumption, and understood no eccentricities but his own. 

Still, Vivian, whose industry was of a strong wing, but only 
for short flights, had not enough to employ more than a few 
hours of his day, and I dreaded lest he should, from very 
idleness, fall back into old habits, and re-seek old friendships. 
His cynical candour allowed that both were sufficiently dis- 
reputable to justify grave apprehensions of such a result; ac- 
cordingly, I contrived to find leisure in my evenings to lessen 
his ennui, by accompanying him in rambles through the gaslit 
streets, or occasionally, for an hour or so, to one of the theatres. 

Vivian’s first care, on finding himself rich enough, had been 
bestowed on his person ; and those two faculties of observation 
and imitation which minds so ready always eminently possess, 
had enabled him to achieve that graceful neatness of costume 
peculiar to the English gentleman. For the first few days of 
his metamorphosis, traces indeed of a constitutional love of show, 
or vulgar companionship, were noticeable ; but one by one 
they disappeared. First went a gaudy neckcloth, with collars 
turned down ; then a pair of spurs vanished ; and lastly, a 
diabolical instrument that he called a cane — but which, by 
means of a running bullet, could serve as a bludgeon at one end 
and concealed a dagger in the other — subsided into the ordinary 
walking-stick adapted to our peaceable metropolis. A similar 
change, though in a less degree, gradually took place in his 
manner and his conversation, He grew less abrupt in the one. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


191 


and more calm, perhaps more cheerful, in the other. It was 
evident that he was not insensible to the elevated pleasure of 
providing for himself by praiseworthy exertion — of feeling for 
the first time that his intellect was of use to him creditably. A 
new world, though still dim — seen through mist and fog — began 
to dawn upon him. 

Such is the vanity of us poor mortals, that my interest in 
Vivian was probably increased, and my aversion to much in him 
materially softened, by observing that I gained a sort of ascen- 
dency over his savage nature. When we had first met by the 
roadside, and afterwards conversed in the churchyard, the 
ascendency was certainly not on my side. But I now came 
from a larger sphere of society than that in which he had yet 
moved. I had seen and listened to the first men in England. 
What had then dazzled me only, now moved my pity. On the 
other hand, his active mind could not but observe the change 
in me ; and, whether from envy or a better feeling, he was 
willing to learn from me how to eclipse me, and resume his 
earlier superiority— not to be superior chafed him. Thus he 
listened to me with docility when I pointed out the books 
which connected themselves with the various subjects inci- 
dental to the miscellaneous matters on which he was employed. 
Though he had less of the literary turn of mind than any one 
equally clever I had ever met, and had read little, considering 
the quantity of thought he had acquired, and the show he 
made of the few works with which he had voluntarily made 
himself familiar, he yet resolutely sate himself down to study ; 
and though it was clearly against the grain, I augured the more 
favourably from tokens of a determination to do what was at 
the present irksome for a purpose in the future. Yet, whether 
I should have approved the purpose had I thoroughly under- 
stood it is another question ! There were abysses both in his 
past life and in his character, which I could not penetrate. 
There was in him both a reckless frankness and a vigilant 
reserve : his frankness was apparent in his talk on all matters 
immediately before us ; in the utter absence of all effort to 
make himself seem better than he was. His reserve was 
equally shown in the ingenious evasion of every species of 
confidence that could admit me into such secrets of his life as 
he chose to conceal : where he had been born, reared, and 
educated ; how he came to be thrown on his own resources ; 
how he had contrived, how he had subsisted, were all matters 
on which he had seemed to take an oath to FI arpoc rates, the 


192 


THE CAXTONS: 


god of silence. And yet he was full of anecdotes of what he 
had seen, of strange companions whom he never named, but 
with whom he had been thrown. And, to do him justice, I 
remarked that, though his precocious experience seemed to 
have been gathered from the holes and corners, the sewers and 
drains of life, and though he seemed wholly without dislike 
to dishonesty, and to regard virtue or vice with as serene an in- 
difference as some grand poet who views them both merely as 
ministrants to his art, yet he never betrayed any positive breach 
of honesty in himself. He could laugh over the story of some 
ingenious fraud that he had witnessed, and seemed insensible 
to its turpitude ; but he spoke of it in the tone of an approving 
witness, not of an actual accomplice. As we grew more in- 
timate, he felt gradually, however, that pudor, or instinctive 
shame, which the contact with minds habituated to the distinc- 
tions between wrong and right unconsciously produces, and such 
stories ceased. He never but once mentioned his family, and 
that was in the following odd and abrupt manner : 

“ Ah ! ” cried he one day, stopping suddenly before a print- 
shop, “ how that reminds me of my dear, dear mother ! ” 

“Which?” said I eagerly, puzzled between an engraving 
of Raffaelle’s “Madonna,” and another of “The Brigand’s 
Wife.” 

Vivian did not satisfy my curiosity, but drew me on in spite 
of my reluctance. 

“You loved your mother, then?” said I, after a pause. 

“Yes, as a whelp may a tigress.” 

“ That’s a strange comparison.” 

“ Or a bull-dog may the prize-fighter, his master ! Do you 
like that better ? ” 

“ Not much ; is it a comparison your mother would like ? ” 

“ Like ? — she is dead ! ” said he, rather falteringly. 

I pressed his arm closer to mine. 

“ I understand you,” said he, with his cynic repellent smile. 
“ But you do wrong to feel for my loss. I feel for it ; but no 
one who cares for me should sympathise with my grief.” 

“Because my mother was not what the world would call a 
good woman. I did not love her the less for that. And now 
let us change the subject.” 

“ Nay ; since you have said so much, Vivian, let me coax you 
to say on. Is not your father living ? ” 

“ Is not the Monument standing ? ” 


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193 


“ I suppose so ; what of that ? ” 

“ Why, it matters very little to either of us ; and my question 
answers yours.” 

I could not get on after this, and I never did get on a step 
farther. I must own that if Vivian did not impart his confi- 
dence liberally, neither did he seek confidence inquisitively 
from me. He listened with interest if I spoke of Trevanion 
(for I told him frankly of my connection with that personage, 
though you may be sure that I said nothing of Fanny), and of 
the brilliant world that my residence with one so distinguished 
opened to me. But if ever, in the fulness of my heart, I began 
to speak of my parents, of my home, he evinced either so im- 
pertinent an ennui, or assumed so chilling a sneer, that I usually 
hurried away from him, as well as the subject, in indignant 
disgust. Once especially, when I asked him to let me intro- 
duce him to my father — a point on which I was really anxious, 
for I thought it impossible but that the devil within him would 
be softened by that contact — he said, with his low, scornful 
laugh — 

“ My dear Caxton, when I was a child, I was so bored with 
f Telemachus,’ that, in order to endure it, I turned it into 
travesty.” 

“ Well ? ” 

“ Are you not afraid that the same wicked disposition might 
make a caricature of your Ulysses ? ” 

I did not see Mr. Vivian for three days after that speech ; and 
I should not have seen him then, only we met, by accident, under 
the Colonnade of the Opera House. Vivian was leaning against 
one of the columns, and watching the long procession which 
swept to the only temple in vogue that Art has retained in the 
English Babel. Coaches and chariots, blazoned with arms and 
coronets — cabriolets (the brougham had not then replaced them) 
of sober hue, but exquisite appointment, with gigantic horses 
and pigmy “tigers,” dashed on, and rolled off before him. Fair 
women and gay dresses, stars and ribbons — the rank and the 
beauty of the patrician world — passed him by. And I could not 
resist the compassion with which this lonely, friendless, eager, 
discontented spirit inspired me — gazing on that gorgeous 
existence in which it fancied itself formed to shine, with the 
ardour of desire and the despair of exclusion. By one glimpse 
of that dark countenance, I read what was passing within the 
yet darker heart. The emotion might not be amiable, nor the 
thoughts wise, yet, were they unnatural ? I had experienced 


194 


THE CAXTONS : 


something of them — not at the sight of gay-dressed people, 
of wealth and idleness, pleasure and fashion; but when, at the 
doors of Parliament, men who have won noble names, and whose 
word had weight on the destinies of glorious England, brushed 
heedlessly by to their grand arena ; or when, amidst the holiday 
crowd of ignoble pomp, I had heard the murmur of fame buzz 
and gather round some lordly labourer in art or letters : that 
contrast between glory so near, and yet so far, and one’s own 
obscurity, of course I had felt it — who has not ? Alas ! many 
a youth not fated to be a Themistocles, will yet feel that the 
trophies of a Miltiades will not suffer him to sleep ! So I went 
up to Vivian and laid my hand on his shoulder. 

“ Ah ! ” said he, more gently than usual, “ I am glad to see 
you, and to apologise — I offended you the other day. But you 
would not get very gracious answers from souls in purgatory 
if you talked to them of the happiness of heaven. Never speak 
to me about homes and fathers ! Enough ! I see you forgive 
me. Why are you not going to the opera ? You can ? ” 

“ And you too, if you so please. A ticket is shamefully 
dear, to be sure ; still, if you are fond of music, it is a luxury 
you can afford.” 

“ Oh, you flatter me if you fancy the prudence of saving with- 
holds me ! I did go the other night, but I shall not go again. 
Music ! — when you go to the opera, is it for the music ? ** 

“ Only partially, I own : the lights, the scene, the pageant, 
attract me quite as much. But I do not think the opera a 
very profitable pleasure for either of us. For rich, idle people, 
I dare say, it may be as innocent an amusement as any other, 
but I find it a sad enervator.” 

“ And I just the reverse — a horrible stimulant! Caxton, do you 
know that, ungracious as it will sound to you, I am growing 
impatient of this f honourable independence!’ What does it 
lead to ? — board, clothes, and lodging, — can it ever bring me 
anything more ? ” 

“ At first, Vivian, you limited your aspirations to kid gloves 
and a cabriolet : it has brought the kid gloves already ; by-and- 
by it will bring the cabriolet ! ” 

“Our wishes grow by what they feed on. You live in the 
great world — you can have excitement if you please it — I want 
excitement, I want the world, I want room for my mind, man ! 
Do you understand me ? ” 

“ Perfectly — and sympathise with you, my poor Vivian ; but 
it will all come. Patience, as I oreached to you while dawn 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


195 


rose so comfortless over the streets of London. You are not 
losing time ; fill your mind ; read, study, fit yourself for ambi- 
tion. Why wish to fly till you have got your wings ? Live 
in books now : after all, they are splendid palaces, and open 
to us all, rich and poor.” 

“ Books, books ! — ah ! you are the son of a bookman. It is 
not by books that men get on in the world, and enjoy life 
in the meanwhile.” 

“ I don’t know that ; but, my good fellow, you want to do 
both — get on in the world as fast as labour can, and enjoy life 
as pleasantly as indolence may. You want to live like the 
butterfly, and yet have all the honey of the bee ; and, what 
is the very deuce of the whole, even as the butterfly, you ask 
every flower to grow up in a moment ; and, as a bee, the 
whole hive must be stored in a quarter of an hour ! Patience, 
patience, patience.” 

Vivian sighed a fierce sigh. “ I suppose,” said he, after an 
unquiet pause, “ that the vagrant and the outlaw are strong 
in me, for I long to run back to my old existence, which was all 
action, and therefore allowed no thought.” 

While he thus said, we had wandered round the Colonnade, 
and were in that narrow passage in which is situated the more 
private entrance to the opera ; close by the doors of that 
entrance, two or three young men were lounging. As Vivian 
ceased, the voice of one of these loungers came laughingly to 
our ears. 

“ Oh ! ” it said, apparently in answer to some question, “ I 
have a much quicker way to fortune than that : I mean to 
marry an heiress ! ” 

Vivian started, and looked at the speaker. He was a very 
good-looking fellow. Vivian continued to look at him, and 
deliberately, from head to foot ; he then turned away with a 
satisfied and thoughtful smile. 

“ Certainly,” said I gravely (construing the smile), “ you are 
right there ; you are even better-looking than that heiress- 
hunter ! ” 

Vivian coloured ; but before he could answer, one of the 
loungers, as the group recovered from the gay laugh which 
their companion’s easy coxcombry had excited, said — 

“ Then, by the way, if you want an heiress, here comes one 
of the greatest in England ; but instead of being a younger son, 
with three good lives between you and an Irish peerage, one 
ought to be an earl at least to aspire to Fanny Trevanion ! ” 


THE CAXTONS: 


196 

The name thrilled through me — I felt myself tremble ; and, 
looking up, I saw Lady Ellinor and Miss Trevanion, as they 
hurried from their carriage towards the entrance of the opera. 
They both recognised me — and Fanny cried — 

“ You here ! How fortunate ! You must see us into the 
box, even if you run away the moment after.” 

“ But I am not dressed for the opera,” said I, embarrassed. 

“ And why not ? ” asked Miss Trevanion ; then, dropping her 
voice, she added, “ Why do you desert us so wilfully ? ” — and, 
leaning her hand on my arm, I was drawn irresistibly into the 
lobby. The young loungers at the door made way for us, and 
eyed me, no doubt, with envy. 

“ Nay ! ” said I, affecting to laugh, as I saw Miss Trevanion 
waited for my reply. “You forget how little time I have for 
such amusements now — and my uncle ” 

“Oh, but mamma and I have been to see your uncle to-day, 
and he is nearly well — is he not, mamma ? I cannot tell you 
how I like and admire him. He is just what I fancy a Douglas 
of the old day. But mamma is impatient. Well, you must 
dine with us to-morrow — promise ! — not adieu but au revoir” 
and Fanny glided to her mother’s arm. Lady Ellinor, always 
kind and courteous to me, had good-naturedly lingered till this 
dialogue, or rather monologue, was over. 

On returning to the passage, I found Vivian walking to and 
fro ; he had lighted his cigar, and was smoking energetically. 

“So this great heiress,” said he, smiling, “who, as far as I 
could see — under her hood — seems no less fair than rich, is 
the daughter, I presume, of the Mr. Trevanion whose effusions 
you so kindly submit to me. He is very rich, then ! You never 
said so, yet I ought to have known it : but you see I know 
nothing of your beau monde — not even that Miss Trevanion is 
one of the greatest heiresses in England.” 

“Yes, Mr. Trevanion is rich,” said I, repressing a sigh, — 
“ very rich.” 

“And you are his secretary! My dear friend, you may well 
offer me patience, for a large stock of yours will, I hope, be 
superfluous to you.” 

“ I don’t understand you.” 

“Yet you heard that young gentleman, as well as myself: and 
you are in the same house as the heiress.” 

“ Vivian ! ” 

“Well, what have I said so monstrous?” 

“ Pooh ! since you refer to that young gentleman, you heard. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 197 

too, what his companion told him , — ‘ one ought to be an earl, at 
least, to aspire to Fanny Trevanion ! ’ ” 

“ Tut ! as well say that one ought to be a millionaire to aspire to 
a million ! — yet I believe those who make millions generally 
begin with pence.” 

“ That belief should be a comfort and encouragement to you, 
Vivian. And now, good night, — I have much to do.” 

“Good night, then,” said Vivian, and we parted. 

I made my way to Mr. Trevanion’ s house, and to the study. 
There was a formidable arrear of business waiting for me, and I 
sat down to it at first resolutely ; but by degrees I found my 
thoughts wandering from the eternal blue-books, and the pen 
slipped from my hand, in the midst of an extract from a Report 
on Sierra Leone. My pulse beat loud and quick ; I was in that 
state of nervous fever which only emotion can occasion. The 
sweet voice of Fanny rang in my ears ; her eyes, as I had last 
met them, unusually gentle — almost beseeching — gazed upon 
me wherever I turned : and then, as in mockery, I heard again 
those words , — “ One ought to be an earl, at least, to aspire to ” 
— Oh! did I aspire? Was I vain fool so frantic ?— household 
traitor so consummate ? No, no ! Then what did I under the 
same roof? — why stay to imbibe this sweet poison, that was 
corroding the very springs of my life ? At that self-question, 
which, had I been but a year or two older, I should have asked 
long before, a mortal terror seized me ; the blood rushed from 
my heart, and left me cold — icy cold. To leave the house — 
leave Fanny ! — never again to see those eyes — never to hear 
that voice ! better die of the sweet poison than of the desolate 
exile ! I rose — I opened the windows — I walked to and fro the 
room ; I could decide nothing — think of nothing ; all my mind 
was in an uproar. With a violent effort at self-mastery, I 
approached the table again. I resolved to force myself to my 
task, if it were only to re-collect my faculties, and enable them 
to bear my own torture. I turned over the books impatiently, 
when, lo ! buried amongst them, what met my eye ? — archly, 
yet reproachfully — the face of Fanny herself! Her miniature 
was there. It had been, I knew, taken a few days before by a 
young artist whom Trevanion patronised. I suppose he had 
carried it into his study to examine it and so left it there care- 
lessly. The painter had seized her peculiar expression, her 
ineffable smile — so charming, so malicious ; even her favourite 
posture — the small head turned over the rounded Hebe-like 
shoulder — the eye glancing up from under the hair. I know 


198 


THE CAXTONS 


not what change in my madness came over me ; but I sank on 
my knees, and, kissing the miniature again and again, burst 
into tears. Such tears ! I did not hear the door open — I did 
not see the shadow steal over the floor ; a light hand rested on 
my shoulder, trembling as it rested — I started. Fanny herself 
was bending over me ! 

“What is the matter?” she asked tenderly. “What has 
happened ? — your uncle — your family — all well ? Why are you 
weeping ? ” 

I could not answer ; but I kept my hands clasped over the 
miniature, that she might not see what they contained. 

“ Will you not answer ? Am I not your friend ? — almost your 
sister ? Come, shall I call mamma ? ” 

“ Yes — yes ; go — go.” 

“ No, I will not go yet. What have you there ? — what are 
you hiding ? ” 

And innocently, and sister-like, those hands took mine ; and 
so — and so — the picture became visible ! There was a dead 
silence. I looked up through my tears. Fanny had recoiled 
some steps, and her cheek was very flushed, her eyes downcast. 
I felt as if I had committed a crime — as if dishonour clung to 
me ; and yet I repressed — yes, thank Heaven ! I repressed the 
cry that swelled from my heart, and rushed to my lips — “ Pity 
me, for I love you ! ” I repressed it, and only a groan escaped 
me — the wail of my lost happiness ! Then, rising, I laid the 
miniature on the table, and said, in a voice, that I believe was 
firm — 

“ Miss Trevanion, you have been as kind as a sister to me, and 
therefore I was bidding a brother’s farewell to your likeness ; it 
is so like you — this ! ” 

“ Farewell ! ” echoed Fanny, still not looking up. 

“ Farewell — sister ! There, I have boldly said the word ; for 
— for” — I hurried to the door, and, there turning, added, with 
what I meant to be a smile — “ for they say at home that I — I 
am not well ; too much for me this ; you know, mothers will be 
foolish; and — and — I am to speak to your father to-morrow: and 
— good night ! God bless you, Miss Trevanion ! ” 





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CHAPTER I 


AND my father pushed aside his books. 

O young reader, whoever thou art, — or reader, at least, 
who hast been young, — canst thou not remember some time 
when, with thy wild troubles and sorrows as yet borne in 
secret, thou hast come back from that hard, stern world which 
opens on thee when thou puttest thy foot out of the threshold 
of home — come back to the four quiet walls, wherein thine 
elders sit in peace — and seen, with a sort of sad amaze, how 
calm and undisturbed all is there ? That generation which has 
gone before thee in the path of the passions — the generation 
of thy parents (not so many years, perchance, remote from thine 
own) — how immovably far off, in its still repose, it seems from 
thy turbulent youth ! It has in it a stillness as of a classic 
age, antique as the statues of the Greeks. That tranquil 
monotony of routine into which those lives that preceded thee 
have merged — the occupations that they have found sufficing 
for their happiness, by the fireside — in the arm-chair and corner 
appropriated to each — how strangely they contrast thine own 
feverish excitement ! And they make room for thee, and bid 
thee welcome, and then resettle to their hushed pursuits, as 
if nothing had happened ! Nothing had happened ! while in 
thy heart, perhaps, the whole world seems to have shot from 
its axis, all the elements to be at war ! And you sit down, 
crushed by that quiet happiness which you can share no more, 
and smile mechanically and look into the fire ; and, ten to one, 
you say nothing till the time comes for bed, and you take up 
your candle, and creep miserably to your lonely room. 

Now, if in a stage-coach in the depth of winter, when three 
passengers are warm and snug, a fourth, all besnowed and 
frozen, descends from the outside and takes place amongst 
them, straightway all the three passengers shift their places, 
uneasily pull up their cloak collars, re-arrange their “com- 


200 


THE CAXTONS : 


forters,” feel indignantly a sensible loss of caloric — the intruder 
has at least made a sensation. But if you had all the snows 
of the Grampians in your heart, you might enter unnoticed ; 
take care not to tread on the toes of your opposite neighbour, 
and not a soul is disturbed, not a “ comforter ” stirs an inch ! 
I had not slept a wink, I had not even laid down all that night 
— the night in which I had said farewell to Fanny Trevanion — 
and the next morning, when the sun rose, I wandered out — 
where I know not : I have a dim recollection of long, grey, 
solitary streets — of the river that seemed flowing in dull, sullen 
silence, away, far away, into some invisible eternity — trees and 
turf, and the gay voices of children. I must have gone from 
one end of the great Babel to the other : but my memory only 
became clear and distinct when I knocked, somewhere before 
noon, at the door of my father’s house, and, passing heavily 
up the stairs, came into the drawing-room, which was the 
rendezvous of the little family ; for, since we had been in 
London, my father had ceased to have his study apart, and 
contented himself with what he called “a corner” — a corner 
wide enough to contain two tables and a dumb waiter, with 
chairs a discretion all littered with books. On the opposite 
side of this capacious corner sat my uncle, now nearly con- 
valescent, and he was jotting down, in his stiff, military hand, 
certain figures in a little red account book — for you know 
already that my Uncle Roland was, in his expenses, the most 
methodical of men. 

My fathers face was more benign than usual, for before him 
lay a proof — the first proof of his first work — his one work — 
the Great Book ! Yes ! it had positively found a press. And 
the first proof of your first work — ask any author what that is ! 
My mother was out, with the faithful Mrs. Primmins, shopping 
or marketing, no doubt ; so, while the brothers were thus 
engaged, it was natural that my entrance should not make as 
much noise as if it had been a bomb, or a singer, or a clap of 
thunder, or the last “ great novel of the season,” or anything 
else that made a noise in those days. For what makes a noise 
now ? Now, when the most astonishing thing of all is our easy 
familiarity with things astounding — when we say, listlessly, 
“ Another revolution at Paris,” or, “ By-the-bye, there is the 
deuce to do at Vienna ! ” — when De Joinville is catching fish 
in the ponds at Claremont, and you hardly turn back to look 
at Metternich on the pier at Brighton ! 

My uncle nodded and growled indistinctly ; my father — 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


201 


“ Put aside his books ; you have told us that already.” 

Sir, you are very much mistaken ; it was not then that he 
put aside his books, for he was not then engaged in them — 
he was reading his proof. And he smiled, and pointed to it 
(the proof I mean) pathetically, and with a kind of humour, 
as much as to say — “ What can you expect, Pisistratus ? — my 
new baby in short clothes — or long primer, which is all the 
same thing ! ” 

I took a chair between the two, and looked first at one, then 
at the other — Heaven forgive me ! — I felt a rebellious, ungrate- 
ful spite against both. The bitterness of my soul must have 
been deep indeed, to have overflowed in that direction, but 
it did. The grief of youth is an abominable egotist, and that 
is the truth. I got up from the chair, and walked towards 
the window ; it was open, and outside the window was Mrs. 
Primmins’ canary, in its cage. London air had agreed with 
it, and it was singing lustily. Now, when the canary saw me 
standing opposite to its cage, and regarding it seriously, and I 
have no doubt, with a very sombre aspect, the creature stopped 
short, and hung its head on one side, looking at me obliquely 
and suspiciously. Finding that I did it no harm, it began to 
hazard a few broken notes, timidly and interrogatively, as it 
were, pausing between each ; and at length, as I made no 
reply, it evidently thought it had solved the doubt, and ascer- 
tained that I was more to be pitied than feared — for it stole 
gradually into so soft and silvery a strain that, I verily believe, 
it did it on purpose to comfort me ! — me, its old friend, whom 
it had unjustly suspected. Never did any music touch me so 
home as did that long, plaintive cadence. And when the bird 
ceased, it perched itself close to the bars of the cage, and 
looked at me steadily with its bright intelligent eyes. I felt 
mine water, and I turned back and stood in the centre of the 
room, irresolute what to do, where to go. My father had done 
with the proof, and was deep in his folios. Roland had clasped 
his red account-book, restored it to his pocket, wiped his pen 
carefully, and now watched me from under his great beetle- 
brows. Suddenly he rose, and stamping on the hearth with 
his cork-leg, exclaimed, “Look up from those cursed books, 
brother Austin ! What is there in your son’s face ? Construe 
that , if you can ! ” 


202 


THE CAXTONS : 


CHAPTER II 

AND my father pushed aside his books, and rose hastily. He 
took off his spectacles, and rubbed them mechanically, but 
he said nothing, and my uncle, staring at him for a moment, in 
surprise at his silence, burst out — 

" Oh ! I see ; he has been getting into some scrape, and you 
are angry. Fie ! young blood will have its way, Austin, it will. 
I don’t blame that — it is only when — come here, Sisty. Zounds ! 
man, come here.” 

My father gently brushed off the Captain’s hand, and advancing 
towards me, opened his arms. The next moment I was sobbing 
on his breast. 

"But what is the matter?” cried Captain Roland — "will no- 
body say what is the matter ? Money, I suppose — money, you 
confounded extravagant young dog. Luckily you have got an 
uncle who has more than he knows what to do with. How 
much ? Fifty ? — a hundred ? — two hundred ? How can I write 
the cheque, if you’ll not speak.” 

" Hush, brother ! it is no money you can give that will set 
this right. My poor boy ! Have I guessed truly ? Did I guess 
truly ? the other evening, when ” 

"Yes, sir, yes! I have been so wretched. But I am better 
now — I can tell you all.” 

My uncle moved slowly towards the door ; his fine sense of 
delicacy made him think that even he was out of place in the 
confidence between son and father. 

" No, uncle,” I said, holding out my hand to him, " stay ; you 
too can advise me — strengthen me. I have kept my honour 
yet — help me to keep it still.” 

At the sound of the word honour, Captain Roland stood mute, 
and raised his head quickly. 

So I told all — incoherently enough at first, but clearly and 
manfully as I went on. Now I know that it is not the custom 
of lovers to confide in fathers and uncles. Judging by those 
mirrors of life, plays and novels, they choose better ; valets and 
chambermaids, and friends whom they have picked up in the 
street, as I had picked up poor Francis Vivian — to these they 
make clean breasts of their troubles. But fathers and uncles — 
to them they are close, impregnable, "buttoned to the chin.” 
The Caxtons were an eccentric family, and never did anything 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


203 


like other people. When I had ended, I lifted up my eyes, and 
said pleadingly, “ Now tell me, is there no hope — none ?” 

“ Why should there be none ? ” cried Captain Roland hastily 
— “ The De Caxtons are as good a family as the Trevanions ; 
and as for yourself, all I will say is, that the young lady might 
choose worse for her own happiness.” 

I wrung my uncle’s hand, and turned to my father in anxious 
fear, for I knew that, in spite of his secluded habits, few men 
ever formed a sounder judgment on worldly matters, when he 
was fairly drawn to look at them. A thing wonderful is that 
plain wisdom which scholars and poets often have for others, 
though they rarely deign to use it for themselves. And how on 
earth do they get at it ? I looked at my father, and the vague 
hope Roland had excited fell as I looked. 

" Brother,” said he slowly, and shaking his head, “ the world, 
which gives codes and laws to those who live in it, does not 
care much for a pedigree, unless it goes with a title-deed to 
estates.” 

“ Trevanion was not richer than Pisistratus when he married 
Lady Ellinor,” said my uncle. 

“True; but Lady Ellinor was not then an heiress; and her 
father viewed these matters as no other peer in England per- 
haps would. As for Trevanion himself, I dare say he has no 
prejudices about station, but he is strong in common sense. 
He values himself on being a practical man. It would be folly 
to talk to him of love, and the affections of youth. He would 
see in the son of Austin Caxton, living on the interest of some 
fifteen or sixteen thousand pounds, such a match for his 
daughter as no prudent man in his position could approve. 
And as for Lady Ellinor ” 

“ She owes us much, Austin ! ” exclaimed Roland, his face 
darkening. 

“ Lady Ellinor is now what, if we had known her better, she 
promised always to be — the ambitious, brilliant, scheming woman 
of the world. Is it not so, — Pisistratus ? ” 

I said nothing — I felt too much. 

“ And does the girl like you ? — but I think it is clear she 
does ! ” exclaimed Roland. “ Fate, fate ; it has been a fatal 
family to us ! Zounds ! Austin, it was your fault. Why did 
you let him go there ? ” 

“ My son is now a man — at least in heart, if not in years — 
can man be shut from danger and trial ? They found me in the 
old parsonage, brother ! ” said my father mildly. 


204 


THE CAXTONS : 


My uncle walked, or rather stumped, three times up and 
down the room ; and he then stopped short, folded his arms, 
and came to a decision — 

“ If the girl likes you, your duty is doubly clear — you can’t 
take advantage of it. You have done right to leave the house, 
for the temptation might be too strong.” 

“ But what excuse shall I make to Mr. Trevanion ? ” said I 
feebly — “ what story can I invent ? So careless as he is while 
he trusts, so penetrating if he once suspects, he will see through 
all my subterfuges, and — and •” 

“ It is as plain as a pikestaff,” said my uncle abruptly — “ and 
there need be no subterfuge in the matter. * I must leave you, 
Mr. Trevanion.’ ‘Why?’ says he. ‘Don’t ask me.’ He in- 
sists. ‘Well then, sir, if you must know, I love your daughter. 
I have nothing, she is a great heiress. You will not approve of 
that love, and therefore I leave you ! ’ That is the course that 
becomes an English gentleman. Eh, Austin ? ” 

“You are never wrong when your instincts speak, Roland,” 
said my father. “ Can you say this, Pisistratus, or shall I say it 
for you ? ” 

“Let him say it himself,” said Roland; “and let him judge 
himself of the answer. He is young, he is clever, he may make 
a figure in the world. Trevanion may answer, ‘ Win the lady 
after you have won the laurel, like the knights of old.’ At all 
events you will hear the worst.” 

“ I will go,” said I firmly ; and I took my hat and left the 
room. As I was passing the landing-place, a light step stole 
down the upper flight of stairs, and a little hand seized my own. 
I turned quickly, and met the full, dark, seriously sweet eyes of 
my cousin Blanche. 

“ Don’t go away yet, Sisty,” said she coaxingly. “ I have 
been waiting for you, for I heard your voice, and did not like to 
come in and disturb you.” 

“ And why did you wait for me, my little Blanche ? ” 

“ Why ! only to see you. But your eyes are red. O 
cousin ! ” — and before I was aware of her childish impulse, she 
had sprung to my neck and kissed me. Now Blanche was not 
like most children, and was very sparing of her caresses. So it 
was out of the deeps of a kind heart that that kiss came. I 
returned it without a word ; and putting her down gently, 
descended the stairs, and was in the streets. But I had not 
got far before I heard my father’s voice ; and he came up, and 
hooking his arm into mine, said, “ Are there not two of us that 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


205 


suffer ? — let us be together ! ” I pressed his arm, and we walked 
on in silence. But when we were near Trevanion’s house, I 
said hesitatingly, “ Would it not be better, sir, that I went in 
alone ? If there is to be an explanation between Mr. Trevanion 
and myself, would it not seem as if your presence implied either 
a request to him that would lower us both, or a doubt of me 
that ” 

“ You will go in alone, of course : I will wait for you ” 

“ Not in the streets — oh, no ! father,” cried I, touched inex- 
pressibly. For all this was so unlike my father’s habits, that I 
felt remorse to have so communicated my young griefs to the 
calm dignity of his serene life. 

“ My son, you do not know how I love you. I have only 
known it myself lately. Look you, I am living in you, now, my 
first-born ; not in my other son — the Great Book : I must have 
my way. Go in ; that is the door, is it not ? ” 

I pressed my father’s hand, and I felt then, that while that 
hand could reply to mine, even the loss of Fanny Trevanion 
could not leave the world a blank. How much we have before 
us in life, while we retain our parents ! How much to strive 
and to hope for ! what a motive in the conquest of our sorrow — 
that they may not sorrow with us * 


CHAPTER III 

T ENTERED Trevanion’s study. It was an hour in which he 
was rarely at home, but I had not thought of that ; and I 
saw without surprise that, contrary to his custom, he was in 
his arm-chair, reading one of his favourite classic authors, 
instead of being in some committee-room of the House of 
Commons. 

“ A pretty fellow you are,” said he, looking up, “ to leave me 
all the morning, without rhyme or reason ! And my committee 
is postponed — chairman ill ; people who get ill should not go 
into the House of Commons. So here I am looking into 
Propertius : Parr is right ; not so elegant a writer as Tibullus. 
But what the deuce are you about ? — why don’t you sit down ? 
Humph ! you look grave — you have something to say, — say it ! ” 
And, putting down Propertius, the acute, sharp face of 
Trevanion instantly became earnest and attentive. 

« My dear Mr. Trevanion,” said I with as much steadiness as 


206 


THE CAXTONS: 


I could assume, “ you have been most kind to me ; and out of 
my own family there is no man I love and respect more.” 

Trevanion.—" Humph! What’s all this ? (In an undertone) 
— Am I going to be taken in ? ” 

Pisistratus . — “ Do not think me ungrateful, then, when I say 
I come to resign my office — to leave the house where I have 
been so happy.” 

Trevanion. — “L eave the house! Pooh! I have overtasked 
you. I will be more merciful in future. You must forgive a 
political economist ; it is the fault of my sect to look upon men 
as machines.” 

Pisistratus (smiling faintly). — “ No, indeed ; that is not it ! I 
have nothing to complain of ; nothing I could wish altered — 
could I stay.” 

Trevanion (examining me thoughtfully). — “ And does your 
father approve of your leaving me thus ? ” 

Pisistratus. — “ Yes — fully.” 

Trevanion (musing a moment). — “ I see, he would send you 
to the University, make you a book-worm like himself: pooh ! 
that will not do — you will never become wholly a man of books 
r — it is not in you. Young man, though I may seem careless, I 
read characters, when I please it, pretty quickly. You do wrong 
to leave me ; you are made for the great world — I can open to 
you a high career. I wish to do so ! Lady Ellinor wishes it — 
nay, insists on it — for your father’s sake as well as yours. I 
never ask a favour from ministers, and I never will. But (here 
Trevanion rose suddenly, and, with an erect mien and a quick 
gesture of his arm, he added) — but a minister can dispose as he 
pleases of his patronage. Look you, it is a secret yet, and I 
trust to your honour. But, before the year is out, I must be 
in the cabinet. Stay with me, I guarantee your fortunes — 
three months ago I would not have said that. By-and-by I 
will open Parliament for you — you are not of age yet — work 
till then. And now sit down and write my letters — a sad 
arrear ! ” 

“My dear, dear Mr. Trevanion!” said I, so affected that I 
could scarcely speak, and seizing his hand, which I pressed 
between both mine — “ I dare not thank you — I cannot ! But 
you don’t know my heart — It is not ambition. No ! if I could 
but stay here on the same terms for ever — here ” — looking 
ruefully on that spot where Fanny had stood the night before. 
“ But it is impossible I~If you knew all, you would be the first 
to bid me go ! ” 


A FAMILY PICTURE 207 

“ You are in debt/’ said the man of the world coldly. “ Bad, 

very bad — still ” 

“No, sir; no! worse.” 

“ Hardly possible to be worse, young man — hardly ! But, 
just as you will; you leave me, and will not say why. Good-bye. 
Why do you linger ? Shake hands, and go ! ” 

“ I cannot leave you thus: I— I — sir, the truth shall out. I 
am rash and mad enough not to see Miss Trevanion without 

forgetting that I am poor, and ” 

a Ha!” interrupted Trevanion softly, and growing pale, “this 
is a misfortune, indeed ! And I, who talked of reading characters ! 
Truly, truly, we would-be practical men are fools — fools ! And 
you have made love to my daughter ! ” 

“Sir? Mr. Trevanion ! — no — never, never so base ! In your 
house, trusted by you, — how could you think it ? I dared, it 
may be, to love — at all events, to feel that I could not be 
insensible to a temptation too strong for me. But to say it 
to your heiress — to ask love in return — I would as soon have 
broken open your desk ! Frankly I tell you my folly : it is a 
folly, not a disgrace.” 

Trevanion came up to me abruptly, as I leant against the 
bookcase, and, grasping my hand with a cordial kindness, said, 
“ Pardon me ! You have behaved as your father’s son should — 
I envy him such a son ! Now, listen to me — I cannot give you 

my daughter ” 

“Believe me, sir, I never ” 

“Tut, listen ! I cannot give you my daughter. I say nothing 
of inequality — all gentlemen are equal; and if not, any imperti- 
nent affectation of superiority, in such a case, would come ill 
from one who owes his own fortune to his wife ! But, as it is, 
I have a stake in the world, won not by fortune only, but the 
labour of a life, the suppression of half my nature — the drudging, 
squaring, taming down all that made the glory and joy of my 
youth — to be that hard matter-of-fact thing which the English 
world expect in a statesman ! This station has gradually opened 
into its natural result — power ! I tell you I shall soon have 
high office in the administration : I hope to render great services 
to England — for we English politicians, whatever the mob and 
the press say of us, are not selfish place-hunters. I refused 
office, as high as I look for now, ten years ago. We believe in 
our opinions, and we hail the power that may carry them into 
effect. In this cabinet I shall have enemies. Oh, don’t think 
we leave jealousy behind us, at the doors of Downing Street ! 


208 


THE CAXTONS: 


I shall be one of a minority. I know well what must happen : 
like all men in power, I must strengthen myself by other heads 
and hands than my own. My daughter shall bring to me the 
alliance of that house in England which is most necessary to me. 
My life falls to the ground, like a child’s pyramid of cards, if I 
waste — I do not say on you, but on men of ten times your fortune 
(whatever that be), the means of strength which are at my dis- 
posal in the hand of Fanny Trevanion. To this end I have 
looked ; but to this end her mother has schemed — for these 
household matters are within a man’s hopes, but belong to a 
woman’s policy. So much for us. But to you, my dear, and 
frank, and high-souled young friend — to you, if I were not 
Fanny’s father — if I were your nearest relation, and Fanny could 
be had for the asking, with all her princely dowry (for it is 
princely), — to you I should say, fly from a load upon the heart, 
on the genius, the energy, the pride, and the spirit, which not 
one man in ten thousand can bear ; fly from the curse of owing 
everything to a wife ! — it is a reversal of all natural position, it 
is a blow to all the manhood within us. You know not what it 
is ; I do ! My wife’s fortune came not till after marriage — so 
far, so well ; it saved my reputation from the charge of fortune- 
hunting. But, I tell you fairly, that if it never came at all, I 
should be a prouder, and a greater, and a happier man than I 
have ever been, or ever can be, with all its advantages ; it has 
been a mill-stone round my neck. And yet Ellinor has never 
breathed a word that could wound my pride. Would her 
daughter be as forbearing? Much as I love Fanny, I doubt if 
she has the great heart of her mother. You look incredulous; — 
naturally. Oh, you think I shall sacrifice my child’s happiness 
to a politician’s ambition. Folly of youth ! Fanny would be 
wretched with you. She might not think so now ; she would 
five years hence ! Fanny will make an admirable duchess, 
countess, great lady ; but wife to a man who owes all to her ! — 
no, no, don’t dream it ! I shall not sacrifice her happiness, 
depend on it. I speak plainly, as man to man — man of the 
world to a man just entering it — but still man to man ! What 
say you ? ” 

“ I will think over all you tell me. I know that you are 
speaking to me most generously — as a father would. Now let 
me go, and may God keep you and yours ! ” 

“ Go — I return your blessing — go ! I don’t insult you now 
with offers of service : but, remember, you have a right to com- 
mand them — in all ways, in all times. Stop ! — take this comfort 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


209 


away with you — a sorry comfort now, a great one hereafter. 
In a position that might have moved anger, scorn, pity, you 
have made a barren-hearted man honour and admire you. You, 
a boy, have made me, with my grey hairs, think better of the 
whole world ; tell your father that.” 

I closed the door, and stole out softly — softly. But when I 
got into the hall, Fanny suddenly opened the door of the break- 
fast parlour, and seemed, by her look, her gesture, to invite me 
in. Her face was very pale, and there were traces of tears on 
the heavy lids. 

I stood still a moment, and my heart beat violently. I then 
muttered something inarticulately, and, bowing low, hastened 
to the door. 

I thought, but my ears might deceive me, that I heard my 
name pronounced ; but fortunately the tall porter started from 
his newspaper and his leathern chair, and the entrance stood 
open. I joined my father. 

"It is all over,” said I, with a resolute smile. “ And now, 
my dear father, I feel how grateful I should be for all that your 
lessons — your life — have taught me ; for, believe me, I am not 
unhappy.” 


CHAPTER IV 



came back to my father's house, and on the stairs we 


* 1 met my mother, whom Roland’s grave looks, and her 
Austin’s strange absence, had alarmed. My father quietly led 
the way to a little room, which my mother had appropriated 
to Blanche and herself : and then, placing my hand in that 
which had helped his own steps from the stony path down the 
quiet vales of life, he said to me, — " Nature gives you here the 
soother ; ” and so saying, he left the room. 

And it was true, O my mother ! that in thy simple loving 
breast nature did place the deep wells of comfort ! We come 
to men for philosophy — to women for consolation. And the 
thousand weaknesses and regrets — the sharp sands of the 
minutiae that make up sorrow — all these, which I could have 
betrayed to no man — not even to him, the dearest and tenderest 
of all men — I showed without shame to thee ! And thy tears, 
that fell on my cheek, had the balm of Araby ; and my heart, 
at length, lay lulled and soothed under thy moist gentle eyes. 

I made an effort, and joined the little circle at dinner ; and I 


o 


210 


THE CAXTONS : 


felt grateful that no violent attempt was made to raise my spirits 
— nothing but affection, more subdued, and soft, and tranquil. 
Even little Blanche, as if by the intuition of sympathy, ceased 
her babble, and seemed to hush her footstep as she crept to my 
side. But after dinner, when we had reassembled in the drawing- 
room, and the lights shone bright, and the curtains were let 
down — and only the quick roll of some passing wheels reminded 
us that there was a world without — my father began to talk. 
He had laid aside all his work ; the younger but less perishable 
child was forgotten, — and my father began to talk. 

“ It is,” said he musingly, “ a well-known thing, that parti- 
cular drugs or herbs suit the body according to its particular 
diseases. When we are ill, we don’t open our medicine-chest 
at random, and take out any powder or phial that comes to 
hand. The skilful doctor is he who adjusts the dose to the 
malady.” 

“Of that there can be no doubt,” quoth Captain Roland. 
“I remember a notable instance of the justice of what you say. 
When I was in Spain, both my horse and I fell ill at the same 
time ; a dose was sent for each ; and, by some infernal mistake, 
I swallowed the horse’s physic, and the horse, poor thing, 
swallowed mine.” 

“And what was the result ?” asked my father. 

“ The horse died ! ” answered Roland mournfully — “a valuable 
beast — bright bay, with a star ! ” 

“ And you ? ” 

“Why, the doctor said it ought to have killed me; but it 
took a great deal more than a paltry bottle of physic to kill a 
man in my regiment.” 

“Nevertheless, we arrive at the same conclusion,” pursued 
my father, — “ I with my theory, you with your experience, — 
that the physic we take must not be chosen haphazard ; and 
that a mistake in the bottle may kill a horse. But when we 
come to the medicine for the mind, how little do we think of 
the golden rule which common sense applies to the body ! ” 

“Anan,” said the Captain, “what medicine is there for the 
mind ? Shakspeare has said something on that subject, which, 
if I recollect right, implies that there is no ministering to a 
mind diseased.” 

“ I think not, brother ; he only said physic (meaning boluses 
and black draughts) would not do it. And Shakspeare was the 
last man to find fault with his own art ; for, verily, he has been 
a great physician to the mind.” 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


211 


“ Ah ! I take you now, brother, — books again ! So you think 
that, when a man breaks his heart, or loses his fortune, or his 
daughter — (Blanche, child, come here) — that you have only to 
clap a plaster of print on the sore place, and all is well. I wish 
you would find me such a cure/’ 

“ Will you try it ? ” 

“ If it is not Greek,” said my uncle. 


CHAPTER V 

MY FATHERS CROTCHET ON THE HYGIENIC CHEMISTRY 
OF BOOKS 

TF,” said my father — and here his hand was deep in his waist- 
coat — “ if we accept the authority of Diodorus, as to the in- 
scription on the great Egyptian library — and I don’t see why 
Diodorus should not be as near the mark as any one else ? ” 
added my father interrogatively, turning round. 

My mother thought herself the person addressed, and nodded 
her gracious assent to the authority of Diodorus. His opinion 
thus fortified, my father continued , — “ If, I say, we accept the 
authority of Diodorus, the inscription on the Egyptian library 
was — 'The Medicine of the Mind.’ Now, that phrase has 
become notoriously trite and hackneyed, and people repeat 
vaguely that books are the medicine of the mind. Yes ; but to 
apply the medicine is the thing ! ” 

“ So you have told us at least twice before, brother,” quoth 
the Captain bluffly. “ And what Diodorus has to do with it, I 
know no more than the man of the moon.” 

“ I shall never get on at this rate,” said my father, in a tone 
between reproach and entreaty. 

“ Be good children, Roland and Blanche both,” said my 
mother, stopping from her work, and holding up her needle 
threateningly — and indeed inflicting a slight puncture upon the 
Captain’s shoulder. 

“ Rem acu tetigisti, my dear,” said my father, borrowing 
Cicero’s pun on the occasion . 1 “ And now we shall go upon 
velvet. I say, then, that books, taken indiscriminately, are no 
cure to the diseases and afflictions of the mind. There is a 

1 Cicero’s joke on a senator who was the son of a tailor — “Thou hast 
touched the thing sharply ” (or with a needle — acu). 


212 


THE CAXTONS : 


world of science necessary in the taking them. I have known 
some people in great sorrow fly to a novel, or the last light book 
in fashion. One might as well take a rose-draught for the 
plague ! Light reading does not do when the heart is really 
heavy. 1 am told that Goethe, wdien he lost his son, took to 
study a science that was new to him. Ah ! Goethe was a 
physician who knew what he was about. In a great grief like 
that, you cannot tickle and divert the mind ; you must wrench 
it away, abstract, absorb — bury it in an abyss, hurry it into a 
labyrinth. Therefore, for the irremediable sorrows of middle 
life and old age, I recommend a strict chronic course of science 
and hard reasoning — Counter-irritation. Bring the brain to act 
upon the heart ! If science is too much against the grain (for 
we have not all got mathematical heads), something in the reach 
of the humblest understanding, but sufficiently searching to the 
highest — a new language — Greek, Arabic, Scandinavian, Chinese, 
or Welsh ! For the loss of fortune, the dose should be applied 
less directly to the understanding — I would administer some- 
thing elegant and cordial. For as the heart is crushed and 
lacerated by a loss in the affections, so it is rather the head that 
aches and suffers by the loss of money. Here we find the higher 
class of poets a very valuable remedy. For observe that poets 
of the grander and more comprehensive kind of genius have in 
them two separate men, quite distinct from each other — the 
imaginative man, and the practical, circumstantial man ; and it 
is the happy mixture of these that suits diseases of the mind, 
half imaginative and half practical. There is Homer, now lost 
with the gods, now at home with the homeliest, the very f poet 
of circumstance/ as Gray has finely called him ; and yet with 
imagination enough to seduce and coax the dullest into for- 
getting, for a while, that little spot on his desk which his 
banker’s book can cover. There is Virgil, far below him, 
indeed — 

‘ Virgil the wise, 

Whose verse walks highest, but not flies/ 

as Cowley expresses it. But Virgil still has genius enough to 
be two men — to lead you into the fields, not only to listen to 
the pastoral reed, and to hear the bees hum, but to note how 
you can make the most of the glebe, and the vineyard. There 
is Horace, charming man of the world, who will condole with 
you feelingly on the loss of your fortune, and by no means 
undervalue the good things of this life ; but who will yet show 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


213 


you that a man may be happy with a vile modicum or parva rum. 
There is Shakspeare, who, above all poets, is the mysterious 
dual of hard sense and empyreal fancy — and a great many more, 
whom I need not name ; but who, if you take to them gently 
and quietly, will not, like your mere philosopher, your unreason- 
able stoic, tell you that you have lost nothing ; but who will 
insensibly steal you out of this world, with its losses and crosses, 
and slip you into another world, before you know where you 
are ! — a world where you are just as welcome, though you carry 
no more earth of your lost acres with you than covers the sole 
of your shoe. Then, for hypochondria and satiety, what is 
better than a brisk ‘alterative course of travels — especially early, 
out-of-the-way, marvellous, legendary travels ! How they 
freshen up the spirits ! How they take you out of the hum- 
drum yawning state you are in. See, with Herodotus, young 
Greece spring up into life ; or note with him how already the 
wondrous old Orient world is crumbling into giant decay ; or 
go with Carpini and Rubruquis to Tartary, meet ‘ the carts of 
Zagathai laden with houses, and think that a great city is travel- 
ling towards you / 1 Gaze on that vast wild empire of the 
Tartar, w T here the descendants of Jenghis * multiply and disperse 
over the immense waste desert, which is as boundless as the 
ocean/ Sail with the early northern discoverers, and penetrate 
to the heart of winter, among sea-serpents and bears, and 
tusked morses, with the faces of men. Then, what think you 
of Columbus, and the stern soul of Cortes, and the kingdom of 
Mexico, and the strange gold city of the Peruvians, with that 
audacious brute Pizarro ? and the Polynesians, just for all the 
world like the ancient Britons ? and the American Indians, and 
the South-sea Islanders ? how petulant, and young, and adven- 
turous, and frisky your hypochondriac must get upon a regimen 
like that ! Then, for that vice of the mind which I call sec- 
tarianism — not in the religious sense of the word, but little, 
narrow prejudices, that make you hate your next-door neighbour, 
because he has his eggs roasted when you have yours boiled ; 
and gossiping and prying into people’s affairs, and backbiting, 
and thinking heaven and earth are coming together, if some 
broom touch a cobweb that you have let grow over the window- 
sill of your brains — what like a large and generous, mildly 
aperient (I beg your pardon, my dear) course of history ! How 
it clears away all the fumes of the head ! — better than the 
hellebore with which the old leeches of the middle ages purged 
1 Rubruquis, sect. xii. 


THE CAXTONS: 


214 . 

the cerebellum. There, amidst all that great whirl and sturmbad 
(storm-bath), as the Germans say, of kingdoms and empires, and 
races and ages, how your mind enlarges beyond that little 
feverish animosity to John Styles : or that unfortunate preposses- 
sion of yours, that all the world is interested in your grievances 
against Tom Stokes and his wife ! 

“ I can only touch, you see, on a few ingredients in this 
magnificent pharmacy — its resources are boundless, but require 
the nicest discretion. I remember to have cured a disconso- 
late widower, who obstinately refused every other medicament, 
by a strict course of geology. I dipped him deep into gneiss 
and mica schist. Amidst the first strata, I suffered the watery 
action to expend itself upon cooling crystallised masses ; and, 
by the time I had got him into the tertiary period, amongst the 
transition chalks of Maestricht, and the conchiferous marls of 
Gosau, he was ready for a new wife. Kitty, my dear ! it is no 
laughing matter. I made no less notable a cure of a young 
scholar at Cambridge, who was meant for the Church, when he 
suddenly caught a cold fit of free-thinking, with great shiverings, 
from wading out of his depth in Spinoza. None of the divines, 
whom I first tried, did him the least good in that state ; so I 
turned over a new leaf, and doctored him gently upon the 
chapters of faith in Abraham Tucker’s book (you should read it, 
Sisty) ; then I threw in strong doses of Fichte ; after that I put 
him on the Scotch metaphysicians, with plunge-baths into 
certain German transcendentalists ; and having convinced him 
that faith is not an unphilosophical state of mind, and that he 
might believe without compromising his understanding — for he 
was mightily conceited on that score — I threw in my divines, 
which he was now fit to digest ; and his theological constitution, 
since then, has become so robust, that he has eaten up two 
livings and a deanery ! In fact, I have a plan for a library that, 
instead of heading its compartments, f Philology, Natural Science, 
Poetry,’ &c., one shall head them according to the diseases for 
which they are severally good, bodily and mental — up from a 
dire calamity, or the pangs of the gout, down to a fit of the 
spleen or a slight catarrh ; for which last your light reading 
comes in with a whey-posset and barley-water. But,” con- 
tinued my father, more gravely, “when some one sorrow, that 
is yet reparable, gets hold of your mind like a monomania — 
when you think, because heaven has denied you this or that, on 
which you had set your heart, that all your life must be a blank 
■ — oh ! then diet yourself well on biography — the biography of 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


215 


good and great men. See how little a space one sorrow really 
makes in life. See scarce a page, perhaps, given to some grief 
similar to your own ; and how triumphantly the life sails on 
beyond it ! You thought the wing was broken ! — Tut — tut — it 
was but a bruised feather ! See what life leaves behind it when 
all is done ! — a summary of positive facts far out of the region 
of sorrow and suffering, linking themselves with the being of 
the world. Yes, biography is the medicine here ! Roland, you 
said you would try my prescription — here it is,” — and my father 
took up a book, and reached it to the Captain. 

My uncle looked over it — “ Life of the Reverend Robert 
Hall.” " Brother, he was a Dissenter, and, thank Heaven ! I 
am a Church and State man, to the backbone ! ” 

“ Robert Hall was a brave man, and a true soldier under the 
Great Commander,” said my father artfully. 

The Captain mechanically carried his forefinger to his fore- 
head in military fashion, and saluted the book respectfully. 

" I have another copy for you, Pisistratus — that is mine which 
I have lent Roland. This, which I bought for you to-day, you 
will keep.” 

"Thank you, sir,” said I listlessly, not seeing what great 
good the “ Life of Robert Hall ” could do me, or why the same 
medicine should suit the old weather-beaten uncle, and the 
nephew yet in his teens. 

" I have said nothing,” resumed my father, slightly bowing his 
broad temples, “ of the Book of Books, for that is the lignum vitce y 
the cardinal medicine for all. These are but the subsidiaries : 
for, as you may remember, my dear Kitty, that I have said before 
— we can never keep the system quite right unless we place 
just in the centre of the great ganglionic system, whence the 
nerves carry its influence gently and smoothly through the whole 
frame — the Saffron Bag ! ” 


CHAPTER VI 


A FTER breakfast the next morning, I took my hat to go out, 
when my father, looking at me, and seeing by my counte- 
nance that I had not slept, said gently — 

" My dear Pisistratus, you have not tried my medicine yet.” 

“ What medicine, sir ? ” 

“ Robert Hall.” 

“ No, indeed, not yet,” said I, smiling. 


216 


THE CAXTONS: 


“ Do so, my son, before you go out ; depend on it you will 
enjoy your walk more." 

I confess that it was with some reluctance I obeyed. I went 
back to my own room, and sate resolutely down to my task. 
Are there any of you, my readers, who have not read the “ Lite 
of Robert Hall " ? If so, in the words of the great Captain 
Cuttle, “ When found, make a note of it." Never mind what 
your theological opinion is — Episcopalian, Presbyterian, Baptist, 
Paedobaptist, Independent, Quaker, Unitarian, Philosopher, 
Free-thinker, — send for Robert Hall ! Yea, if there exist yet 
on earth descendants of the arch-heresies, which made such a 
noise in their day — men who believe with Saturninus that the 
w r orld was made by seven angels ; or with Basilides, that there 
are as many heavens as there are days in the year ; or with the 
Nicolaitanes, that men ought to have their wives in common 
(plenty of that sect still, especially in the Red Republic) ; or 
with their successors, the Gnostics, who believed in Jaldaboath ; 
or with the Carpacratians, that the world was made by the 
devil ; or with the Cerinthians, and Ebionites, and Nazarites 
(which last discovered that the name of Noah’s wife was Ouria, 
and that she set the ark on fire) ; or with the Valentinians, who 
taught that there were thirty iEones, ages, or worlds, born out 
of Profundity (Bathos), male, and Silence, female ; or with the 
Marcites, Colarbasii, and Heracleonites (who still kept up that 
bother about iEones, Mr. Profundity and Mrs. Silence) ; or with 
the Ophites, who are said to have worshipped the serpent ; or 
the Cainites, who ingeniously found out a reason for honouring 
Judas, because he foresaw what good would come to men by 
betraying our Saviour ; or with the Sethites, who made Seth 
a part of the divine substance ; or with the Archonticks, 
Ascothyptae, Cerdonians, Marcionites, the disciples of Apelles, 
and Severus (the last was a teetotaller, and said wine was begot 
by Satan !), or of Tatian, who thought all the descendants of 
Adam w r ere irretrievably damned except themselves (some of 
those Tatiani are certainly extant !), or the Cataphrygians, who 
were also called Tascodragitae, because they thrust their fore- 
fingers up their nostrils to show their devotion ; or the Pepuzians, 
Quintilians, and Artotyrites; or — but no matter. If I go 
through all the follies of men in search of the truth, I shall 
never get to the end of my chapter, or back to Robert Hall : 
whatever, then, thou art, orthodox or heterodox, send for the 
“Life of Robert Hall." It is the life of a man that does good 
to manhood itself to contemplate. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


217 


I had finished the biography, which is not long, and was 
musing over it, when I heard the Captain’s cork-leg upon the 
stairs. I opened the door for him, and he entered, book in 
hand, as I also, book in hand, stood ready to receive him. 

"Well, sir,” said Roland, seating himself, "has the prescrip- 
tion done you any good ? ” 

"Yes, uncle — great.” 

"And me, too. By Jupiter, Sisty, that same Hall was a fine 
fellow ! I wonder if the medicine has gone through the same 
channels in both ? Tell me, first, how it has affected you.” 

" Imprimis , then, my dear uncle, I fancy that a book like this 
must do good to all who live in the world in the ordinary 
manner, by admitting us into a circle of life of which I suspect 
we think but little. Here is a man connecting himself directly 
with a heavenly purpose, and cultivating considerable faculties 
to that one end ; seeking to accomplish his soul as far as he 
can, that he may do most good on earth, and take a higher 
existence up to heaven : a man intent upon a sublime and 
spiritual duty ; in short, living as it were in it, and so filled 
with the consciousness of immortality, and so strong in the link 
between God and man, that, without any affected stoicism, 
without being insensible to pain — rather, perhaps, from a nervous 
temperament, acutely feeling it — he yet has a happiness wholly 
independent of it. It is impossible not to be thrilled with an 
admiration that elevates while it awes you, in reading that 
solemn f Dedication of himself to God.’ This offering of f soul 
and body, time, health, reputation, talents,’ to the divine and 
invisible Principle of Good, calls us suddenly to contemplate the 
selfishness of our own view and hopes, and awakens us from the 
egotism that exacts all and resigns nothing. 

" But this book has mostly struck upon the chord in my own 
heart, in that characteristic which my father indicated as belong- 
ing to all biography. Here is a life of remarkable fulness, great 
study, great thought, and great action ; and yet,” said I, 
colouring, "how small a place those feelings, which have 
tyrannised over me, and made all else seem blank and void, 
hold in that life. It is not as if the man were a cold and hard 
ascetic ; it is easy to see in him not only remarkable tenderness 
and warm affections, but strong self-will, and the passion of all 
vigorous natures. Yes ; I understand better now what existence 
in a true mail should be.” 

" All that is very well said,” quoth the Captain, " but it did 
not strike me. What I have seen in this book is courage. 


218 


THE CAXTONS: 


Here is a poor creature rolling on the carpet with agony ; from 
childhood to death tortured by a mysterious incurable malady — 
a malady that is described as 'an internal apparatus of torture ;’ 
and who does by his heroism, more than bear it — he puts it 
out of power to affect him ; and though (here is the passage) 
‘ his appointment by day and by night was incessant pain, yet 
high enjoyment was, notwithstanding, the law of his existence.’ 
Robert Hall reads me a lesson — me, an old soldier, who thought 
myself above taking lessons — in courage, at least. And, as I 
came to that passage when, in the sharp paroxysms before death, 
he says, ' I have not complained, have I, sir ? — and I won’t com- 
plain ! ’ — when I came to that passage I started up, and cried, 
* Roland de Caxton, thou hast been a coward ! and, an thou 
hadst had thy deserts, thou hadst been cashiered, broken, and 
drummed out of the regiment long ago ! ’ ” 

“ After all, then, my father was not wrong — he placed his 
guns right, and fired a good shot.” 

“ He must have been from 6° to 9° above the crest of the 
parapet,” said my uncle thoughtfully — "which, I take it, is the 
best elevation, both for shot and shells, in enfilading a work.” 

“ What say you, then, Captain ? — up with our knapsacks, and 
on with the march ! ” 

" Right about — face ! ” cried my uncle, as erect as a column. 

“ No looking back, if we can help it.” 

“ Full in the front of the enemy. f Up, guards, and at ’em ! ’ ” 
" f England expects every man to do his duty ! ’ ” 

" Cypress or laurel ! ” cried my uncle, waving the book over 
his head. 


CHAPTER VII 

r WENT out — and to see Francis Vivian ; for, on leaving Mr. 

Trevanion, I was not without anxiety for my new friend’s 
future provision. But Vivian was from home, and I strolled 
from his lodgings into the suburbs on the other side of the river, 
and began to meditate seriously on the best course now to 
pursue. In quitting my present occupations, I resigned pros- 
pects far more brilliant, and fortunes far more rapid, than I 
could ever hope to realise in any other entrance into life. But 
I felt the necessity, if I desired to keep steadfast to that more 
healthful frame of mind I had obtained, of some manly and 
continuous labour — some earnest employment. My thoughts 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


219 


flew back to the university ; and the quiet of its cloisters — which, 
until I had been blinded by the glare of the London world, and 
grief had somewhat dulled the edge of my quick desires and 
hopes, had seemed to me cheerless and unaltering — took an 
inviting aspect. It presented what I needed most — a new 
scene, a new arena, a partial return into boyhood ; repose for 
passions prematurely raised ; activity for the reasoning powers 
in fresh directions. I had not lost my time in London : I had 
kept up, if not studies purely classical, at least the habits of 
application ; I had sharpened my general comprehension, and 
augumented my resources. Accordingly, when I returned home, 
I resolved to speak to my father. But I found he had fore- 
stalled me ; and, on entering, my mother drew me upstairs into 
her room, with a smile kindled by my smile, and told me that 
she and her Austin had been thinking that it was best that I 
should leave London as soon as possible ; that my father found 
he could now dispense with the library of the Museum for some 
months ; that the time for which they had taken their lodgings 
would be up in a few days ; that the summer was far advanced, 
town odious, the country beautiful — in a word, we were to go 
home. There I could prepare myself for Cambridge, till the 
long vacation was over; and, my mother added hesitatingly, 
and with a prefatory caution to spare my health, that my father, 
whose income could ill afford the requisite allowance to me, 
counted on my soon lightening his burden, by getting a scholar- 
ship. I felt how much provident kindness there was in all this 
— even in that hint of a scholarship, which was meant to rouse 
my faculties, and spur me, by affectionate incentives, to a new 
ambition. I was not less delighted than grateful. 

“ But poor Roland/’ said I, “ and little Blanche — will they 
come with us ? ” 

“ I fear not,” said my mother, “ for Roland is anxious to get 
back to his tower ; and in a day or two, he will be well enough 
to move.” 

“ Do you not think, my dear mother, that, somehow or other, 
this lost son of his had something to do with Roland’s illness — 
that the illness was as much mental as physical ? ” 

“ I have no doubt of it, Sisty. What a sad, bad heart that 
young man must have ! ” 

“ My uncle seems to have abandoned all hope of finding him 
in London ; otherwise, ill as he has been, I am sure we could 
not have kept him at home. So he goes back to the old tower. 
Poor man, he must be dull enough there ! We must con- 


220 THE CAXTONS : 

trive to pay him a visit. Does Blanche ever speak of her 
brother ? ” 

“ No ; for it seems they were not brought up much together 
— at all events, she does not remember him. How lovely she 
is ! Her mother must surely have been very handsome.” 

“ She is a pretty child, certainly, though in a strange style of 
beauty — such immense eyes ! — and affectionate, and loves Roland 
as she ought.” 

And here the conversation dropped. 

Our plans being thus decided, it was necessary that I should 
lose no time in seeing Vivian, and making some arrangement 
for the future. His manner had lost so much of its abruptness, 
that I thought I could venture to recommend him personally to 
Trevanion ; and I knew, after what had passed, that Trevanion 
would make a point to oblige me. I resolved to consult my 
father about it. As yet, I had either never found, or never 
made the opportunity to talk to my father on the subject, he 
had been so occupied ; and, if he had proposed to see my new 
friend, what answer could I have made, in the teeth of Vivian’s 
cynic objections? However, as we were now going away, that 
last consideration ceased to be of importance ; and, for the first, 
the student had not yet entirely settled back to his books. I 
therefore watched the time when my father walked down to 
the Museum, and, slipping my arm in his, I told him, briefly 
and rapidly, as we went along, how I had formed this strange 
acquaintance, and how I was now situated. The story did not 
interest my father quite so much as I expected, and he did not 
understand all the complexities of Vivian’s character — how could 
he ? — for he answered briefly, “ I should think that, for a young 
man, apparently without a sixpence, and whose education seems 
so imperfect, any resource in Trevanion must be most temporary 
and uncertain. Speak to your Uncle Jack — he can find him 
some place, I have no doubt — perhaps a readership in a printer’s 
office, or a reporter’s place on some journal, if he is fit for it. 
But if you want to steady him, let it be something regular.” 

Therewith my father dismissed the matter, and vanished 
through the gates of the Museum. Readership to a printer — 
reportership on a journal — for a young gentleman with the high 
notions and arrogant vanity of Francis Vivian — his ambition 
already soaring far beyond kid gloves and a cabriolet ! The 
idea was hopeless ; and, perplexed and doubtful, I took my way 
to Vivian’s lodgings. I found him at home, and unemployed, 
standing by his window, with folded arms, and in a state of such 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


221 


reverie that he was not aware of my entrance till I had touched 
him on the shoulder. 

“ Ha ! ” said he then, with one of his short, quick, impatient 
sighs, " I thought you had given me up, and forgotten me — but 
you look pale and harassed. I could almost think you had 
grown thinner within the last few days.” 

" Oh ! never mind me, Vivian : I have come to speak of 
yourself. I have left Trevanion ; it is settled that I should go 
to the university — and we all quit town in a few days.” 

" In a few days ! — all ! — who are all ? ” 

" My family — father, mother, uncle, cousin, and myself. But, 
my dear fellow, now let us think seriously what is best to be 
done for you. I can present you to Trevanion.” 

« Ha ! ” 

" But Trevanion is a hard, though an excellent man, and, 
moreover, as he is always changing the subjects that engross 
him, in a month or so he may have nothing to give you. You 
said you would work — will you consent not to complain if the 
work cannot be done in kid gloves ? Young men who have 
risen high in the world have begun, it is well known, as re- 
porters to the press. It is a situation of respectability, and in 
request, and not easy to obtain, I fancy ; but still ” 

Vivian interrupted me hastily — 

" Thank you a thousand times ! but what you say confirms a 
resolution I had taken before you came. I shall make it up 
with my family, and return home.” 

" Oh ! I am so really glad. How wise in you ! ” 

Vivian turned away his head abruptly — 

"Your pictures of family life and domestic peace, you see,” 
he said, "seduced me more than you thought. When do you 
leave town ? ” 

" Why, I believe, early next week.” 

" So soon,” said Vivian thoughtfully. " Well, perhaps I may 
ask you yet to introduce me to Mr. Trevanion ; for — who 
knows ? — my family and I may fall out again. But I will con- 
sider. I think I have heard you say that this Trevanion is a 
very old friend of your father’s or uncle’s ? ” 

" He, or rather Lady Ellinor, is an old friend of both.” 

" And therefore would listen to your recommendations of me. 
But perhaps I may not need them. So you have left — left of 
your own accord — a situation that seemed more enjoyable, I 
should think, than rooms in a college ; — left — why did you 
leave ? ” 


222 


THE CAXTONS : 


And Vivian fixed his bright eyes full and piercingly on mine. 

" It was only for a time, for a trial, that I was there,” said I 
evasively ; " out at nurse, as it were, till the Alma Mater opened 
her arms— alma indeed she ought to be to my father’s son.” 

Vivian looked unsatisfied with my explanation, but did not 
question me farther. He himself was the first to turn the 
conversation, and he did this with more affectionate cordiality 
than was common to him. He inquired into our general plans, 
into the probabilities of our return to town, and drew from 
me a description of our rural Tusculum. He was quiet and 
subdued ; and once or twice I thought there was a moisture in 
those luminous eyes. We parted with more of the unreserve 
and fondness of youthful friendship — at least on my part, and 
seemingly on his — than had yet endeared our singular intimacy ; 
for the cement of cordial attachment had been wanting to an 
intercourse in which one party refused all confidence, and the 
other mingled distrust and fear with keen interest and com- 
passionate admiration. 

That evening, before lights were brought in, my father, 
turning to me, abruptly asked if I had seen my friend, and what 
he was about to do. 

" He thinks of returning to his family,” said I. 

Roland, who had seemed dozing, winced uneasily. 

" Who returns to his family ? ” asked the Captain. 

" Why, you must know,” said my father, "that Sisty has fished 
up a friend of whom he can give no account that would satisfy 
a policeman, and whose fortunes he thinks himself under the 
necessity of protecting. You are very lucky that he has not 
picked your pockets, Sisty ; but I daresay he has ! What’s his 
name ? ” 

"Vivian,” said I — "Francis Vivian.” 

"A good name, and a Cornish,” said my father. "Some 
derive it from the Romans — Vivianus; others from a Celtic 
word, which means ” 

"Vivian!” interrupted Roland — "Vivian! — I wonder if it be 
the son of Colonel Vivian ? ” 

"He is certainly a gentleman’s son,” said I ; " but he never 
told me what his family and connections were.” 

"Vivian,” repeated my uncle — "poor Colonel Vivian! So 
the young man is going to his father. I have no doubt it is 
the same. Ah ! ” 

"What do you know of Colonel Vivian, or his son?” said I. 
" Pray tell me ; I am so interested in this young man.” 












A FAMILY PICTURE 


223 


“ I know nothing of either, except by gossip,” said my uncle 
moodily. “I did hear that Colonel Vivian, an excellent officer 
and honourable man, had been in — in — (Roland’s voice faltered) 
— in great grief about his son, whom, a mere boy, he had pre- 
vented from some improper marriage, and who had run away 
and left him — it was supposed for America. The story affected 
me at the time,” added my uncle, trying to speak calmly. 

We were all silent, for we felt why Roland was so disturbed, 
and why Colonel Vivian’s grief should have touched him home. 
Similarity in affliction makes us brothers even to the unknown. 

"You say he is going home to his family — I am heartily glad 
of it ! ” said the envying old soldier gallantly. 

The lights came in then, and two minutes after. Uncle Roland 
and I were nestled close to each other, side by side ; and I was 
reading over his shoulder, and his finger was silently resting on 
that passage that had so struck him — " I have not complained — 
have I, sir ? — and I won’t complain ! ” 


PART X 


CHAPTER I 

1VTY uncle’s conjecture as to the parentage of Francis Vivian 
^ seemed to me a positive discovery. Nothing more likely 
than that this wilful boy had formed some headstrong attach- 
ment which no father would sanction, and so, thwarted and 
irritated, thrown himself on the world. Such an explanation 
was the more agreeable to me, as it cleared up much that had 
appeared discreditable in the mystery that surrounded Vivian. 

I could never bear to think that he had done anything mean 
and criminal, however I might believe he had been rash and 
faulty. It was natural that the unfriended wanderer should 
have been thrown into a society, the equivocal character of 
which had failed to revolt the audacity of an inquisitive mind 
and adventurous temper ; but it was natural, also, that the 
habits of gentle birth, and that silent education which English 
gentlemen commonly receive from their very cradle, should 
have preserved his honour, at least, intact through all. Cer- 
tainly the pride, the notions, the very faults of the well-born 
had remained in full force — why not the better qualities, how- 
ever smothered for the time ? I felt thankful for the thought 
that Vivian w r as returning to an element in which he might 
repurify his mind, — refit himself for that sphere to which he 
belonged ; — thankful that we might yet meet, and our present 
half-intimacy mature, perhaps, into Healthful friendship. 

It was with such thoughts that I took up my hat the next 
morning to seek Vivian, and judge if we had gained the right 
clue, when we were startled by what was a rare sound at our 
door — the postman’s knock. My father was at the Museum ; 
my mother in high conference, or close preparation for our 
approaching departure, with Mrs. Primmins ; Roland, I, and 
Blanche had the room to ourselves. 

“ The letter is not for me,” said Pisistratus. 

“Nor for me, I am sure,” said the Captain, when the servant 

22 4 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


225 


entered and confuted him — for the letter was for him. He took 
it up wonderingly and suspiciously, as Glumdalclitch took up 
Gulliver, or as (if naturalists) we take up an unknown creature, 
that we are not quite sure will not bite and sting us. Ah ! it 
has stung or bit you. Captain Roland ! for you start and change 
colour — you suppress a cry as you break the seal — you breathe 
hard as you read — and the letter seems short — but it takes time 
in the reading, for you go over it again and again. Then you 
fold it up — crumple it — thrust it into your breast pocket — and 
look round like a man waking from a dream. Is it a dream of 
pain or of pleasure ? Verily, I cannot guess, for nothing is on 
that eagle face either of pain or pleasure, but rather of fear, 
agitation, bewilderment. Yet the eyes are bright, too, and there 
is a smile on that iron lip. 

My uncle looked round, 1 say, and called hastily for his cane 
and his hat, and then began buttoning his coat across his broad 
breast, though the day was hot enough to have unbuttoned 
every breast in the metropolis. 

“ You are not going out, uncle ? ” 

"Yes, yes/* 

" But are you strong enough yet ? Let me go with you.” 

“ No, sir ; no. Blanche, come here.” He took the child in 
his arms, surveyed her wistfully, and kissed her. "You have 
never given me pain, Blanche ; say, f God bless and prosper you, 
father ! * ” 

“ God bless and prosper my dear, dear papa ! ” said Blanche, 
putting her little hands together as if in prayer. 

“ There — that should bring me luck, Blanche,” said the 
Captain gaily, and setting her down. Then seizing his cane 
from the servant, and putting on his hat with a determined air, 
he w alked stoutly forth ; and I saw him, from the window, 
march along the streets as cheerfully as if he had been besieging 
Badajoz. 

“ God prosper thee, too ! ” said I involuntarily. 

And Blanche took hold of my hand, and said in her prettiest 
way (and her pretty ways were many), “ I wish you would come 
with us, cousin Sisty, and help me to love papa. Poor papa ! 
he wants us both — he wants all the love we can give him.” 

“ That he does, my dear Blanche ; and I think it a great 
mistake that we don’t all live together. Your papa ought not 
to go to that tower of his at the world’s end, but come to our 
snug, pretty house, with a garden full of flowers, for you to be 
Queen of the May — from May to November ; to say nothing of 

p 


226 


THE CAXTONS : 


a cluck that is more sagacious than any creature in the Fables 
I gave you the other day.” 

Blanche laughed and clapped her hands — " Oh, that would 
be so nice ! But ” — and she stopped gravely, and added, " but 
then, you see, there would not be the tower to love papa ; and 
I am sure that the tower must love him very much, for lie loves 
it dearly.” 

It was my turn to laugh now. " I see how it is, you little 
witch ! ” said I ; "you would coax us to come and live with you 
and the owls ! With all my heart, so far as I am concerned.” 

" Sisty,” said Blanche, with an appalling solemnity on her 
face, " do you know what I have been thinking ? ” 

" Not I, miss — what ? — something very deep, I can see — very 
horrible, indeed, I fear — you look so serious.” 

" Why, I’ve been thinking,” continued Blanche, not relaxing 
a muscle, and without the least bit of a blush — "I’ve been 
thinking that I’ll be your little wife ; and then, of course, we 
shall all live together.” 

Blanche did not blush, but I did. "Ask me that ten years 
hence, if you dare, you impudent little thing ; and now, run 
away to Mrs. Primmins, and tell her to keep you out of mischief, 
for I must say f good morning.’ ” 

But Blanche did not run away, and her dignity seemed ex- 
ceedingly hurt at my mode of taking her alarming proposition, 
for she retired into a corner pouting, and sat down with great 
majesty. So there I left her, and went my way to Vivian. 
He was out ; but, seeing books on his table, and having nothing 
to do, I resolved to wait for his return. I had enough of my 
father in me to turn at once to the books for company ; and, by 
the side of some graver works which I had recommended, I 
found certain novels in French, that Vivian had got from a 
circulating library. I had a curiosity to read these — for, except 
the old classic novels of France, this mighty branch of its 
popular literature was new to me. I soon got interested, but 
what an interest ! — the interest that a nightmare might excite, 
if one caught it out of one’s sleep, and set to work to examine 
it. By the side of what dazzling shrewdness, wh<*ft deep 
knowledge of those holes and corners in the human system, of 
which Goethe must have spoken when he said somewhere — (if I 
recollect right, and don’t misquote him, which I’ll not answer 
for) — "There is something in every man’s heart which, if we 
could know, would make us hate him,” — by the side of all this, 
and of much more that showed prodigious boldness and energy 


/ 




c7 


Cnd Sat down with 

*na/est v 






A FAMILY PICTURE 


227 


of intellect, what strange exaggeration — what mock nobility of 
sentiment — what inconceivable perversion of reasoning — what 
damnable demoralisation ! The true artist, whether in Romance 
or the Drama, will otten necessarily interest us in a vicious or 
criminal character — but he does not the less leave clear to our 
reprobation the vice or the crime. But here I found myself 
called upon not only to feel interest in the villain (which would 
be perfectly allowable, — I am very much interested in Macbeth 
and Lovelace), — but to admire and sympathise with the villainy 
itself. Nor was it the confusion of all wrong and right in 
individual character that shocked me the most — but rather the 
view of society altogether, painted in colours so hideous that, if 
true, instead of a revolution, it would draw down a deluge ; — it 
was the hatred, carefully instilled, of the poor against the rich — 
it was the war breathed between class and class — it was that 
envy of all superiorities, which loves to show itself by allowing 
virtue only to a blouse, and asserting that a man must be a 
rogue if he belong to that rank of society in which, from the 
very gifts of education, from the necessary associations of cir- 
cumstance, roguery is the last thing probable or natural. It 
was all this, and things a thousand times worse, that set my 
head in a whirl, as hour after hour slipped on, and I still gazed, 
spellbound, on these Chimeras and Typhons — these symbols of 
the Destroying Principle. “ Poor Vivian ! ” said I, as I rose at 
last, “ if thou readest these books with pleasure, or from habit, 
no wonder that thou seemest to me so obtuse about right and 
wrong, and to have a great cavity where thy brain should have 
the bump of ‘ conscientiousness ’ in full salience ! ” 

Nevertheless, to do those demoniacs justice, I had got through 
time imperceptibly by their pestilent help ; and I was startled 
to see, by my watch, how late it was. I had just resolved to 
leave a line fixing an appointment for the morrow, and so depart, 
when I heard Vivian’s knock — a knock that had great character 
in it — haughty, impatient, irregular ; not a neat symmetrical, 
harmonious, unpretending knock, but a knock that seemed to 
set the whole house and street at defiance : it was a knock 
bullying — a knock ostentatious — a knock irritating and offensive 
— “ impiger,” and “ iracundus.” 

But the step that came up the stairs did not suit the knock ! 
it was a step light, yet firm — slow, yet elastic. 

The maid-servant who had opened the door had, no doubt, 
informed Vivian of my visit, for he did not seem surprised to 
see me ; but he cast that hurried suspicious look round the 


228 


THE CAXTONS : 


room which a man is apt to cast when he has left his papers 
about, and finds some idler, on whose trustworthiness he by no 
means depends, seated in the midst of the unguarded secrets. 
The look was not flattering ; but my conscience was so unre- 
proachful that I laid all the blame upon the general suspicious- 
ness of Vivian’s character. 

“ Three hours, at least, have I been here ! ” said I mali- 
ciously. 

“ Three hours ! ” — again the look. 

“And this is the worst secret I have discovered,” — and I 
pointed to those literary Manicheans. 

“ Oh ! ” said he carelessly, “ French novels ! — I don’t wonder 
you stayed so long. I can’t read your English novels — flat and 
insipid : there are truth and life here.” 

“ Truth and life ! ” cried I, every hair on my head erect with 
astonishment — “ then hurrah for falsehood and death ! ” 

“ They don’t please you ; no accounting for tastes.” 

“ I beg your pardon — I account for yours, if you really take 
for truth and life monsters so nefast and flagitious. For heaven’s 
sake, my dear fellow, don’t suppose that any man could get on 
in England — get anywhere but to the Old Bailey or Norfolk 
Island, if he squared his conduct to such topsy-turvy notions 
of the world as I find here.” 

“ How many years are you my senior,” asked Vivian sneer- 
ingly, “ that you should play the mentor, and correct my 
ignorance of the world ? ” 

“ Vivian, it is not age and experience that speak here, it is 
something far wiser than they — the instinct of a man’s heart, 
and a gentleman’s honour.” 

“Well, well,” said Vivian, rather discomposed, “let the poor 
books alone : you know my creed — that books influence us little 
one way or the other.” 

“ By the great Egyptian library, and the soul of Diodorus ! I 
wish you could hear my father upon that point. Come,” added 
I, with sublime compassion — “come, it is not too late — do let 
me introduce you to my father. I will consent to read French 
novels all my life, if a single chat with Austin Caxton does not 
send you home with a happier face and a lighter heart. Come, 
let me take you back to dine with us to-day.” 

“ I cannot,” said Vivian, with some confusion — “ I cannot, for 
this day I leave London. Some other time perhaps— for,” he 
added, but not heartily, “ we may meet again.” 

“I hope so,” said I, wringing his hands, “and that is likely. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


229 


— since, in spite of yourself, I have guessed your secret — your 
birth and parentage.” 

“How!” cried Vivian, turning pale and gnawing his lip — 
“ what do you mean ? — speak.” 

“Well then, are you not the lost, runaway son of Colonel 
Vivian? Come, say the truth ; let us be confidants.” 

Vivian threw off a succession of his abrupt sighs ; and then, 
seating himself, leant his face on the table, confused, no doubt, 
to find himself discovered. 

“You are near the mark,” said he, at last, “but do not ask 
me farther yet. Some day,” he cried impetuously, and spring- 
ing suddenly to his feet — “some day you shall know all: yes; 
some day, if I live, when that name shall be high in the world : 
yes, when the world is at my feet ! ” He stretched his right 
hand as if to grasp the space, and his whole face was lighted 
with a fierce enthusiasm. The glow died away, and with a 
slight return of his scornful smile, he said — “ Dreams yet ; 
dreams ! And now, look at this paper.” And he drew out a 
memoranda, scrawled over with figures. 

“ This, I think, is my pecuniary debt to you ; in a few days 
I shall discharge it. Give me your address.” 

“ Oh ! ” said I, pained, “ can you speak to me of money, 
Vivian ? ” 

“ It is one of those instincts of honour you cite so often,” 
answered he, colouring. “ Pardon me.” 

“That is my address,” said I, stooping to write, in order to 
conceal my wounded feelings. “You will avail yourself of it, 
I hope, often, and tell me that you are well and happy.” 

“ When I am happy you shall know.” 

“You do not require any introduction to Trevanion?” 

Vivian hesitated. “ No, I think not. If ever I do, I will 
write for it.” 

I took up my hat, and was about to go — for I was still chilled 
and mortified — when, as if by an irresistible impulse, Vivian 
came to me hastily, flung his arms round my neck, and kissed 
me as a boy kisses his brother. 

“ Bear with me ! ” he cried in a faltering voice ; “ I did not 
think to love any one as you have made me love you, though 
sadly against the grain. If you are not my good angel, it is 
that nature and habit are too strong for you. Certainly, some 
day we shall meet again. I shall have time, in the meanwhile, 
to see if the world can be indeed 'mine oyster, which I with 
sword can open.’ I would be aut Caesar aut niillus ! Very little 


230 


THE CAXTONS : 


other Latin know I to quote from ! If Caesar, men will forgive 
me all the means to the end ; if nullus, London has a river, and 
in every street one may buy a cord ! ” 

“Vivian! Vivian!” 

“ Now go, my dear friend, while my heart is softened — go 
before I shock you with some return of the native Adam. 
Go — go ! ” 

And taking me gently by the arm, Francis Vivian drew me 
from the room and re-entering, locked his door. 

Ah ! if I could have left him Robert Hall, instead of those 
execrable Typhons ! But would that medicine have suited his 
case, or must grim Experience write sterner prescriptions with 
iron hand ? 


CHAPTER II 

TYTHEN I got back, just in time for dinner, Roland had not 
* " returned, nor did he return till late in the evening. All 
our eyes were directed towards him, as we rose with one accord 
to give him welcome ; but his face was like a mask — it was 
locked, and rigid, and unreadable. 

Shutting the door carefully after him, he came to the hearth, 
stood on it, upright and calm, for a few moments, and then 
asked — 

“ Has Blanche gone to bed ? ” 

“Yes,” said my mother, “but not to sleep, I am sure; she 
made me promise to tell her when you came back.” 

Roland’s brow relaxed. 

“To-morrow sister,” said he slowly, “will you see that she 
has the proper mourning made for her ? My son is dead.” 

“Dead ! ” we cried with one voice, and surrounding him with 
one impulse. 

“ Dead ! impossible — you could not say it so calmly. Dead — 
how do you know ? You may be deceived. Who told you ? 
— why do you think so ? ” 

“I have seen his remains,” said my uncle, with the same 
gloomy calm. “We will all mourn for him. Pisistratus, you 
are heir to my name now, as to your father’s. Good night ; 
excuse me, all — all you dear and kind ones; I am worn 
out.” 

Roland lighted his candle and went away, leaving us thunder- 
struck ; but he came back again — looked round — took up his 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


231 


book, open in the favourite passage — nodded again, and again 
vanished. We looked at each other as if we had seen a ghost. 
Then my father rose and went out of the room, and remained 
in Roland’s till the night was well nigh gone ! We sat up — my 
mother and I — till he returned. His benign face looked pro- 
foundly sad. 

“ How is it, sir ? Can you tell us more ? ” 

My father shook his head. 

“ Roland prays that you may preserve the same forbearance 
you have shown hitherto, and never mention his son’s name to 
him. Peace be to the living, as to the dead. Kitty, this 
changes our plans ; we must all go to Cumberland — we cannot 
leave Roland thus ! ” 

“ Poor, poor Roland ! ” said my mother, through her tears. 
“ And to think that father and son were not reconciled. But 
Roland forgives him now — oh yes ; now ! ” 

“It is not Roland we can censure,” said my father, almost 

fiercely ; “it is but enough. We must hurry out of town as 

soon as we can : Roland will recover in the native air of his old 
ruins.” 

We went up to bed mournfully. “ And so,” thought I, “ ends 
one grand object of my life ! — I had hoped to have brought 
those two together. But, alas ! what peacemaker like the 
grave ! ” 


CHAPTER III 



uncle did not leave his room for three days, but he was 


much closeted with a lawyer ; and my father dropped some 
words which seemed to imply that the deceased had incurred 
debts, and that the poor Captain was making some charge on 
his small property. As Roland had said that he had seen the 
remains of his son, I took it, at first, for granted that we should 
attend a funeral, but no word of this was said. On the fourth 
day, Roland in deep mourning entered a hackney coach with 
the lawyer, and was absent about two hours. I did not doubt 
that he had thus quietly fulfilled the last mournful offices. On 
his return, he shut himself up again for the rest of the day, and 
would not see even my father. But the next morning he made 
his appearance as usual, and I even thought that he seemed 
more cheerful than I had yet known him — whether he played 
a part, or whether the worst was now over, and the grave was 


232 THE CAXTONS : 

less cruel than uncertainty. On the following day we all set 
out for Cumberland. 

In the interval, Uncle Jack had been almost constantly at the 
house, and, to do him justice, he had seemed unaffectedly shocked 
at the calamity that had befallen Roland. There was, indeed, no 
want of heart in Uncle Jack, whenever you w r ent straight at it ; 
but it was hard to find if you took a circuitous route towards it 
through the pockets. The worthy speculator had indeed much 
business to transact with my father before he left town. The 
Anti-Publisher Society had been set up, and it was through the 
obstetric aid of that fraternity that the Great Book was to be 
ushered into the world. The new journal, the Literary Times , 
was also far advanced — not yet out, but my father was fairly in 
for it. There were preparations for its debut on a vast scale, and 
two or three gentlemen in black — one of whom looked like a 
lawyer, and another like a printer, and a third uncommonly like 
a Jew — called twice, with papers of a very formidable aspect. 
All these preliminaries settled, the last thing I heard Uncle 
.Jack say, with a slap on my father’s back, was, Fame and 
fortune both made now ! — you may go to sleep in safety, for you 
leave me wide awake. Jack Tibbets never sleeps ! ” 

I had thought it strange that, since my abrupt exodus from 
Trevanion’s house, no notice had been taken of any of us by 
himself or Lady Ellinor. But on the very eve of our departure, 
came a kind note from Trevanion to me, dated from his favourite 
country-seat (accompanied by a present of some rare books to 
my father), in which he said briefly that there had been illness 
in his family, which had obliged him to leave town for a change 
of air, but that Lady Ellinor expected to call on my mother the 
next week. He had found amongst his books some curious 
works of the Middle Ages, amongst others a complete set 
of Cardan, which he knew’ my father would like to have, and 
so sent them. There was no allusion to what had passed 
between us. 

In reply to this note, after due thanks on my father’s part, 
who seized upon the Cardan (Lyons edition, 1663, ten volumes 
folio) as a silk- worm does upon a mulberry-leaf, I expressed our 
joint regrets that there was no hope of our seeing Lady Ellinor, 
as we were just leaving town. I should have added something 
on the loss my uncle had sustained, but my father thought that, 
since Roland shrank from any mention of his son, even by his 
nearest kindred, it would be his obvious wish not to parade his 
affliction beyond that circle. 


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233 


And there had been illness in Trevanion’s family ! On whom 
had it fallen ? I could not rest satisfied with that general ex- 
pression, and I took my answer myself to Trevanion’s house, 
instead of sending it by the post. In reply to my inquiries, the 
porter said that all the family were expected at the end of the 
week ; that he had heard both Lady Ellinor and Miss Trevanion 
had been rather poorly, but that they were now better. I left 
my note with orders to forward it ; and my wounds bled afresh 
as I came away. 

We had the whole coach to ourselves in ouy journey, and a 
silent journey it was, till we arrived at a little town about eight 
miles from my uncle’s residence, to which we could only get 
through a cross-road. My uncle insisted on preceding us that 
night, and, though he had written, before we started, to an- 
nounce our coming, he was fidgety lest the poor tower should 
not make the best figure it could ; so he went alone, and we 
took our ease at our inn. 

Betimes the next day we hired a fly-coach — for a chaise could 
never have held us and my father’s books — and fogged through 
a labyrinth of villainous lanes, which no Marshal Wade had ever 
reformed from their primal chaos. But poor Mrs. Primmins and 
the canary-bird alone seemed sensible of the jolts ; the former, 
who sat opposite to us wedged amidst a medley of packages, all 
marked “ Care, to be kept top uppermost ” (why I know not, for 
they were but books, and whether they lay top or bottom it 
could not materially affect their value), — the former, I say, con- 
trived to extend her arms over those disjecta membra , and, griping 
a window-sill with the right hand, and a window-sill with the 
left, kept her seat rampant, like the split eagle of the Austrian 
Empire — in fact, it would be well nowadays, if the split eagle 
were as firm as Mrs. Primmins ! As for the canary, it never 
failed to respond, by an astonished chirp, to every “ Gracious 
me!” and “Lord save us!” which the delve into a rut, or the 
bump out of it, sent forth from Mrs. Primmins’s lips, with all the 
emphatic dolor of the “At, at ! ” in a Greek chorus. 

But my father, with his broad hat over his brows, was in deep 
thought. The scenes of his youth were rising before him, and 
his memory went, smooth as a spirit’s wing, over delve and 
bunm. And my mother, who sat next him, had her arm on his 
shouflder, and was watching his face jealously. Did she think 
that, in that thoughtful face, there was regret for the old love ? 
Blanche, who had been very sad, and had wept much and 
quietly since they put on her the mourning, and told her that 


234, 


THE CANTONS: 


she had no brother (though she had no remembrance of the 
lost), began now to evince infantine curiosity and eagerness to 
catch the first peep of her father’s beloved tower. And Blanche 
sat on my knee, and I shared her impatience. At last there 
came in view a church spire — a church— a plain square building 
near it, the parsonage (my father’s old home), a long straggling 
street of cottages and rude shops, with a better kind of house 
here and there — and in the hinder ground, a grey deformed 
mass of wall and ruin, placed on one of those eminences on 
which the Danes loved to pitch camp or build fort, with one 
high, rude, Anglo-Norman tower rising from the midst. Few 
trees were round it, and those either poplars or firs, save, as we 
approached, one mighty oak — integral and unscathed. The 
road now wound behind the parsonage, and up a steep ascent. 
Such a road ! the whole parish ought to have been flogged for 
it ! If I had sent up a road like that, even on a map, to Dr. 
Herman, I should not have sat down in comfort for a week to 
come ! 

The fly-coach came to a full stop. 

“ Let us get out,” cried I, opening the door, and springing to 
the ground to set the example. 

Blanche followed, and my respected parents came next. But 
when Mrs. Primmins was about to heave herself into movement — 

“ Papas ! ” said my father. “ I think, Mrs. Primmins, you must 
remain in, to keep the books steady.” 

“Lord love you !” cried Mrs. Primmins, aghast. 

“ The subtraction of such a mass, or motes — supple and elastic 
as all flesh is, and fitting into the hard corners of the inert 
matter — such a subtraction, Mrs. Primmins, would leave a 
vacuum which no natural system, certainly no artificial organisa- 
tion, could sustain. There would be a regular dance of atoms, 
Mrs. Primmins ; my books would fly here, there, on the floor, 
out of the window ! 

“ ‘ Corporis officium est quoniam omnia deorsum.’ 

The business of a body like yours, Mrs. Primmins, is to press all 
things down — to keep them tight, as you will know one of these 
days — that is, if you will do me the favour to read Lucretius, 
and master that material philosophy, of which I may say, with- 
out flattery, my dear Mrs. Primmins, that you are a living 
illustration.” 

These, the first words my father had spoken since we set out 
from the inn, seemed to assure my mother that she need have 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


235 


no apprehension as to the character of his thoughts, for her brow 
cleared, and she said, laughing — 

“ Only look at poor Primmins, and then at that hill ! ” 

“You may subtract Primmins, if you will be answerable for 
the remnant, Kitty. Only I warn you, that it is against all the 
laws of physics.” 

So saying, he sprang lightly forward, and, taking hold of my 
arm, paused and looked round, and drew the loud free breath 
with which we draw native air. 

“And yet,” said my father, after that grateful and affec- 
tionate inspiration — “and yet, it must be owned, that a more 
ugly country one cannot see out of Cambridgeshire .” 1 

“ Nay,” said I, “ it is bold and large, it has a beauty of its 
own. Those immense, undulating, uncultivated, treeless tracts 
have surely their charm of wildness and solitude ! And how 
they suit the character of the ruin ! All is feudal there ! I 
understand Roland better now.” 

“ I hope to heaven Cardan will come to no harm ! ” cried my 
father ; “ he is very handsomely bound ; and he fitted beauti- 
fully just into the fleshiest part of that fidgety Primmins.” 

Blanche, meanwhile, had run far before us, and I followed 
first. There were still the remains of that deep trench (sur- 
rounding the ruins on three sides, leaving a ragged hill-top at 
the fourth) which made the favourite fortification of all the 
Teutonic tribes. A causeway, raised on brick arches, now, how- 
ever, supplied the place of the drawbridge, and the outer gate 
was but a mass of picturesque ruin. Entering into the court- 
yard or bailey, the old castle mound, from which justice had 
been dispensed, was in full view, rising higher than the broken 
walls around it, and partially overgrown with brambles. And 
there stood, comparatively whole, the Tower or Keep, and from 
its portals emerged the veteran owner. 

His ancestors might have received us in more state, but 
certainly they could not have given us a warmer greeting. In 
fact, in his own domain Roland appeared another man. His 
stiffness, which was a little repulsive to those who did not under- 
stand it, was all gone. He seemed less proud, precisely because 
he and his pride, on that ground, were on good terms with each 
other. How gallantly he extended — not his arm, in our modern 

1 This certainly cannot be said of Cumberland generally, one of the most 
beautiful counties in Great Britain. But the immediate district to which 
Mr. Caxton’s exclamation refers, if not ugly, is at least savage, bare, 
and rude. 


236 


THE CAXTONS: 


Jack-and-Jill sort of fashion — but his right hand to my mother ; 
how carefully he led her over “ brake, bush, and scaur,” through 
the low vauited door, where a tall servant, who, it was easy to 
see, had been a soldier — in the precise livery, no doubt, war- 
ranted by the heraldic colours (his stockings were red !) — stood 
upright as a sentry. And, coming into the hall, it looked 
absolutely cheerful — it took us by surprise. There was a great 
fireplace, and, though it was still summer, a great fire ! It did 
not seem a bit too much, for the walls were stone, the lofty roof 
open to the rafters, while the windows were small and narrow, 
and so high and so deep sunk that one seemed in a vault. 
Nevertheless, I say the room looked sociable and cheerful — 
thanks principally to the fire, and partly to a very ingenious 
medley of old tapestry at one end, and matting at the other, 
fastened to the lower part of the walls, seconded by an arrange- 
ment of furniture which did credit to my uncle’s taste for the 
picturesque. After we had looked about and admired to our 
hearts’ content, Roland took us — not up one of those noble stair- 
cases you see in the later manorial residences — but a little wind- 
ing stone stair, into the rooms he had appropriated to his guests. 
There was first a small chamber, which he called my father’s 
study — in truth, it would have done for any philosopher or saint 
who wished to shut out the world — and might have passed for 
the interior of such a column as the Stylites inhabited ; for you 
must have climbed a ladder to have looked out of the window, 
and then the vision of no short-sighted man could have got over 
the interval in the wall made by the narrow casement, which, 
after all, gave no other prospect than a Cumberland sky, with 
an occasional rook in it. But my father, I think I have said 
before, did not much care for scenery, and he looked round with 
great satisfaction upon the retreat assigned him. 

“We can knock up shelves for your books in no time,” said 
my uncle, rubbing his hands. 

" It would be a charity,” quoth my father, “ for they have 
been very long in a recumbent position, and would like to 
stretch themselves, poor things. My dear Roland, this room 
is made for books — so round and so deep. I shall sit here like 
Truth in a well.” 

“And there is a room for you, sister, just out of it,” said my 
uncle, opening a little, low, prison-like door into a charming 
room, for its window was low, and it had an iron balcony ; “ and 
out of that is the bedroom. For you, Pisistratus, my boy, I 
am afraid that it is soldiers’ quarters, indeed, with which you 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


237 


will have to put up. But never mind ; in a day or two we 
shall make all worthy a general of your illustrious name — for 
he was a great general, Pisistratus the First — was he not, 
brother ? ” 

" All tyrants are,” said my father ; " the knack of soldiering 
is indispensable to them.” 

" Oh, you may say what you please here,” said Roland, in 
high good-humour, as he drew me downstairs, still apologising 
for my quarters, and so earnestly, that I made up my mind 
that I was to be put into an oubliette. Nor were my suspicions 
much dispelled on seeing that we had to leave the keep, and 
pick our way into what seemed to me a mere heap of rubbish, 
on the dexter side of the court. But I was agreeably surprised 
to find, amidst these wrecks, a room with a noble casement, 
commanding the whole country, and placed immediately over 
a plot of ground cultivated as a garden. The furniture was 
ample, though homely ; the floors and walls well matted ; and, 
altogether, despite the inconvenience of having to cross the 
courtyard to get to the rest of the house, and being wholly 
without the modern luxury of a bell, I thought that I could 
not be better lodged. 

" But this is a perfect bower, my dear uncle ! Depend on it, 
it was the bower-chamber of the Dames de Caxton — Heaven 
rest them ! ” 

"No,” said my uncle gravely; "I suspect it must have been 
the chaplain’s room, for the chapel was to the right of you. An 
earlier chapel, indeed, formerly existed in the keep tower — for, 
indeed, it is scarcely a true keep without chapel, well, and hall. 
I can show you part of the roof of the first, and the two last are 
entire ; the well is very curious, formed in the substance of the 
wall at one angle of the wall. In Charles the First’s time, our 
ancestor lowered his only son down in a bucket and kept him 
there six hours, while a malignant mob was storming the tower. 
I need not say that our ancestor himself scorned to hide from 
such a rabble, for he was a grown man. The boy lived to be a 
sad spendthrift, and used the well for cooling his wine. He 
drank up a great many good acres.” 

"I should scratch him out of the pedigree, if I were you. 
But pray, have you not discovered the proper chamber of that 
great Sir William, about whom my father is so shamefully 
sceptical ? ” 

"To tell you a secret,” answered the Captain, giving me a 
sly poke in the ribs, " I have put your father into it ! There 


238 


THE CAXTONS : 


are the initial letters W. C. let into the cusp of the York rose, 
and the date three years before the battle of Bosworth, over the 
chimney-piece.” 

I could not help joining my uncle’s grim, low laugh at this 
characteristic pleasantry ; and after I had complimented him on 
so judicious a mode of proving his point, I asked him how he 
could possibly have contrived to fit up the ruin so well, especially 
as he had scarcely visited it since his purchase. 

" Why,” said he, " some years ago, that poor fellow you now 
see as my servant, and who is gardener, bailiff, seneschal, butler, 
and anything else you can put him to, was sent out of the 
army on the invalid list. So I placed him here ; and as he is 
a capital carpenter, and has had a very fair education, I told 
him what I wanted, and put by a small sum every year for 
repairs and furnishing. It is astonishing how little it cost me ; 
for Bolt, poor fellow (that is his name), caught the right spirit 
of the thing, and most of the furniture (which you see is ancient 
and suitable) he picked up at different cottages and farm-houses 
in the neighbourhood. As it is, however, we have plenty more 
rooms here and there — only, of late/’ continued my uncle, 
slightly changing colour, " I had no money to spare. But 
come,” he resumed, with an evident effort — "come and see 
my barrack : it is on the other side of the hall, and made out 
of what no doubt were the butteries.” 

We reached the yard and found the fly-coach had just crawled 
to the door. My father s head was buried deep in the vehicle, 
— he was gathering up his packages, and sending out, oracle- 
like, various muttered objurgations and anathemas upon Mrs. 
Primmins, and her vacuum; which Mrs. Primmins, standing 
by and making a lap with her apron to receive the packages 
and anathemas simultaneously, bore with the mildness of an 
angel, lifting up her eyes to heaven and murmuring something 
about "poor old bones.” Though, as for Mrs. Primmins’s 
bones, they had been myths these twenty years, and you 
might as soon have found a Plesiosaurus in the fat lands of 
Romney Marsh as a bone amidst those layers of flesh in which 
my poor father thought he had so carefully cottoned up his 
Cardan. 

Leaving these parties to adjust matters between them, we 
stepped under the low doorway, and entered Roland’s room. 
Oh, certainly Bolt had caught the spirit of the thing ! — certainly 
he had penetrated down to the pathos that lay within the deeps 
of Roland’s character. Buffon says "the style is the man”; 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


239 


there, the room was the man. That nameless, inexpressible, 
soldier-like, methodical neatness which belonged to Roland — 
that was the first thing that struck one — that was the general 
character of the whole. Then, in details, there, on stout oak 
shelves, were the books on which my father loved to jest his 
more imaginative brother, — there they were, Froissart, Barante, 
Joinville, the “Mort d’ Arthur,” “ Amadis of Gaul,” Spenser’s 
“ Fairy Queen,” a noble copy of Strutt’s “ Horda,” Mallet’s 
“Northern Antiquities,” Percy’s “ Reliques,” Pope’s “Homer,** 
books on gunnery, archery, hawking, fortification — old chivalry 
and modern war together cheek by jowl. 

Old chivalry and modern war ! — look to that tilting helmet 
with the tall Caxton crest, and look to that trophy near it, a 
French cuirass — and that old banner (a knight’s pennon) sur- 
mounting those crossed bayonets. And over the chimney-piece 
there — bright, clean, and, I warrant you, dusted daily — are 
Roland’s own sword, his holsters and pistols, yea the saddle, 
pierced and lacerated, from which he had reeled when that 
leg — I gasped — I felt it all at a glance, and I stole softly to 
the spot, and, had Roland not been there, I could have kissed 
that sword as reverently as if it had been a Bayard’s or a 
Sydney’s. 

My uncle was too modest to guess my emotion ; he rather 
thought I had turned my face to conceal a smile at his vanity, 
and said, in a deprecating tone of apology, — “ It was all Bolt’s 
doing, foolish fellow.” 


CHAPTER IV 

/YUR host regaled us with a hospitality that notably contrasted 
^ his economical thrifty habits in London. To be sure, Bolt 
had caught the great pike which headed the feast ; and Bolt, 
no doubt, had helped to rear those fine chickens ab ovo ; Bolt, 
I have no doubt, made that excellent Spanish omelette ; and, 
for the rest, the products of the sheep-walk and the garden 
came in as volunteer auxiliaries — very different from the mer- 
cenary recruits by which those metropolitan condottieri, the 
butcher and greengrocer, hasten the ruin of that melancholy 
commonwealth, called “genteel poverty.” 

Our evening passed cheerfully ; and Roland, contrary to his 
custom was talker in chief. It was eleven o’clock before Bolt 
appeared with a lantern to conduct me through tho courtyard 


240 


THE CAXTONS : 


to my dormitory among the ruins — a ceremony which, every 
night, shine or dark, he insisted upon punctiliously performing. 

It was long before I could sleep — before I could believe that 
but so few days had elapsed since Roland heard of his son’s 
death — that son whose fate had so long tortured him ; and 
yet, never had Roland appeared so free from sorrow ! Was it 
natural — was it effort ? Several days passed before I could 
answer that question, and then not wholly to my satisfaction. 
Effort there was, or rather resolute, systematic determination. 
At moments Roland’s head drooped, his brows met, and the 
whole man seemed to sink. Yet these were only moments; 
he would rouse himself up, like a dozing charger at the sound 
of a trumpet, and shake off the creeping weight. But whether 
from the vigour of his determination, or from some aid, in other 
trains of reflection, I could not but perceive that Roland’s sad- 
ness really was less grave and bitter than it had been, or than 
it was natural to suppose. He seemed to transfer, daily, more 
and more, his affections from the dead to those around him, 
especially to Blanche and myself. He let it be seen that he 
looked on me now as his lawful successor — as the future sup- 
porter of his name ; he was fond of confiding to me all his 
little plans, and consulting me on them. He would walk with 
me around his domains (of which I shall say more hereafter), 
— point out, from every eminence we climbed, where the broad 
lands which his forefathers had owned stretched away to the 
horizon : unfold with tender hand the mouldering pedigree, 
and rest lingeringly on those of his ancestors who had held 
martial post, or had died on the field. There was a crusader 
who had followed Richard to Ascalon ; there was a knight 
who had fought at Agincourt; there was a cavalier (whose 
picture was still extant), with fair love-locks, who had fallen 
at Worcester — no doubt the same who had cooled his son in 
that well which the son devoted to more agreeable associations. 
But of all these worthies there was none whom my uncle, per- 
haps from the spirit of contradiction, valued like that apocryphal 
Sir William ; and why ? because, when the apostate Stanley 
turned the fortunes of the field at Bosworth, and when that cry 
of despair, — “ Treason ! treason ! ” burst from the lips of the 
last Plantagenet, “ amongst the faithless,” this true soldier, 
“ faithful found ! ” had fallen in that lion rush which Richard 
made at his foe. "Your father tells me that Richard was a 
murderer and usurper,” quoth my uncle. “Sir, that might 
be true or not ; but it was not on the field of battle that his 


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241 


followers were to reason on the character of the master who 
trusted them, especially when a legion of foreign hirelings 
stood opposed to them. I would not have descended from 
that turncoat Stanley to be lord of all the lands the earls of 
Derby can boast of. Sir, in loyalty, men fight and die for a 
grand principle and a lofty passion ; and this brave Sir William 
was paying back to the last Plantagenet the benefits he had 
received from the first ! ” 

“ And yet it may be doubted,” said I maliciously, “ whether 
William Caxton the printer did not ” 

“ Plague, pestilence, and fire seize William Caxton the printer, 
and his invention too ! ” cried my uncle barbarously. “ When 
there were only a few books, at least they were good ones ; and 
now they are so plentiful, all they do is to confound the judg- 
ment, unsettle the reason, drive the good books out of cultiva- 
tion, and draw a ploughshare of innovation over every ancient 
landmark ; seduce the women, womanise the men, upset states, 
thrones, and churches ; rear a race of chattering, conceited 
coxcombs, who can always find books in plenty to excuse them 
from doing their duty ; make the poor discontented, the rich 
crotchety and whimsical, refine away the stout old virtues into 
quibbles and sentiments ! All imagination formerly was ex- 
pended in noble action, adventure, enterprise, high deeds, and 
aspirations ; now a man can but be imaginative by feeding on 
the false excitement of passions he never felt, dangers he never 
shared ; and he fritters away all there is of life to spare in him 
upon the fictitious love-sorrows of Bond Street and St. James’s. 
Sir, chivalry ceased when the press rose ! and to fasten upon 
me, as a forefather, out of all men who ever lived and sinned, 
the very man who has most destroyed what I most valued — who, 
by the Lord ! with his cursed invention has well-nigh got rid of 
respect for forefathers, altogether — is a cruelty of which my 
brother had never been capable, if that printer’s devil had not 
got hold of him ! ” 

That a man in this blessed nineteenth century should be such 
a Vandal ! and that my uncle Roland should talk in a strain 
that Totila would have been ashamed of, within so short a time 
after my father’s scientific and erudite oration on the Hygeiana 
of Books, was enough to make one despair of the progress of 
intellect and the perfectibility of our species. And I have no 
manner of doubt that, all the while, my uncle had a brace of 
books in his pockets, Robert Hall one of them ! In truth, he 
Lad talked himself into a passion, and did not know what 

Q 


242 


THE CAXTONS : 


nonsense he was saying. But this explosion of Captain Roland’s 
has shattered the thread of my matter. Pouff! I must take 
breath and begin again ! 

Yes, in spite of my sauciness, the old soldier evidently took 
to me more and more. And, besides our critical examination 
of the property and the pedigree, he carried me, with him on 
long excursions to distant villages, where some memorial of a 
defunct Caxton, a coat-of-arms, or an epitaph on a tombstone, 
might be still seen. And he made me pore over topographical 
works and county histories (forgetful, Goth that he was, that 
for those very authorities he was indebted to the repudiated 
printer !) to find some anecdote of his beloved dead ! In truth, 
the county for miles round bore the vestigia of those old Caxtons ; 
their handwriting was on many a broken wall. And, obscure as 
they all were, compared to that great operative of the Sanctuary 
at Westminster, whom my father clung to — still, that the yester- 
days that had lighted them the way to dusty death had cast no 
glare on dishonoured ’scutcheons seemed clear, from the popular 
respect and traditional affection in which I found that the name 
was still held in hamlet and homestead. It was pleasant to see 
the veneration with which this small hidalgo of some three 
hundred a year was held, and the patriarchal affection with 
which he returned it. Roland was a man who would walk into 
a cottage, rest his cork leg on the hearth, and talk for the hour 
together upon all that lay nearest to the hearts of the owners. 
There is a peculiar spirit of aristocracy amongst agricultural 
peasants ; they like old names and families ; they identify them- 
selves with the honours of a house, as if of its clan. They do 
not care so much for wealth as townsfolk and the middle class 
do ; they have a pity, but a respectful one, for well-born poverty. 
And then this Roland, too — who would go and dine in a cook- 
shop, and receive change for a shilling, and shun the ruinous 
luxury of a hack cabriolet — could be positively extravagant in 
his liberalities to those around Jiim. He was altogether another 
being in his paternal acres. The shabby-genteel, half-pay 
captain, lost in the whirl of London, here luxuriated into a 
dignified ease of manner that Chesterfield might have admired. 
And, if to please is the true sign of politeness, I wish you could 
have seen the faces that smiled upon Captain Roland as he 
walked down the village, nodding from side to side. 

One day a frank, hearty old woman, who had known Roland 
as a boy, seeing him lean on my arm, stopped us, as she said 
bluffly, to take a “geud luik” at me. 


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243 


Fortunately I was stalwart enough to pass muster, even in 
the eyes of a Cumberland matron ; and after a compliment at 
which Roland seemed much pleased, she said to me, but pointing 
to the Captain— 

“ Hegh, sir, now you ha the bra time before you ; you maun 
een try and be as geud as he. And if life last, ye wull too — for 
there never waur a bad ane of that stock. Wi* heads kindly 
stup’d to the least, and lifted manfu’ oop to the heighest — that 
ye all war’ sin ye came from the Ark. Blessins on the ould 
name — though little pelf goes with it — it sounds on the peur 
man’s ear like a bit of gould ! ” 

“ Do you not see now,” said Roland, as we turned away, 
“ what we owe to a name, and what to our forefathers ? — do you 
not see why the remotest ancestor has a right to our respect 
and consideration — for he was a parent ? f Honour your parents ’ 
— the law does not say, f Honour your children ! ’ If a child 
disgrace us, and the dead, and the sanctity of this great heritage 

of their virtues — the name ; — if he does ” Roland stopped 

short, and added fervently, “But you are my heir now — I have no 
fear. What matter one foolish old man’s sorrows? — the name, that 
property of generations, is saved, thank Heaven — the name !” 

Now the riddle was solved, and I understood why, amidst all 
his natural grief for a son’s loss, that proud father w r as consoled. 
For he was less himself a father than a son — son to the long 
dead. From every grave where a progenitor slept, he had heard 
a parent’s voice. He could bear to be bereaved, if the fore- 
fathers were not dishonoured. Roland was more than half a 
Roman — the son might still cling to his household affections, 
but the lares were a part of his religion. 


CHAPTER V 

T>UT I ought to be hard at work, preparing myself for Cam- 
^ bridge. The deuce ! — how can I ? The point in academical 
education on which I require most preparation is Greek com- 
position. I come to my father, who, one might think, was at 
home enough in this. But rare indeed is it to find a great 
scholar who is a good teacher. 

My dear father ! if one is content to take you in your own 
way, there never w r as a more admirable instructor for the heart, 
the head; the principles, or the taste — when you have discovered 


244 


THE CAXTONS: 


that there is some one sore to be healed — one defect to be 
repaired : and you have rubbed your spectacles,, and got your 
hand fairly into that recess between your frill and your waist- 
coat. But to go to you, cut and dry, monotonously, regularly — 
book and exercise in hand — to see the mournful patience with 
which you tear yourself from that great volume of Cardan in 
the very honeymoon of possession— and then to note those mild 
eyebrows gradually distend themselves into perplexed diagonals, 
over some false quantity or some barbarous collocation — till 
there steal forth that horrible “ Papae ! ” which means more 
on your lips than I am sure it ever did when Latin was a live 
language, and “ Papae ! ” a natural and unpedantic ejaculation ! 
no, I would sooner blunder through the dark by myself a 
thousand times, than light my rushlight at the lamp of that 
Phlegethonian “ Papae ! ” 

And then my father would wisely and kindly, but wondrous 
slowly, erase three-fourths of one’s pet verses, and intercalate 
others that one saw were exquisite, but could not exactly see 
why. And then one asked why ; and my father shook his head 
in despair, and said — “ But you ought to feci why ! ” 

In short, scholarship to him was like poetry : he could no 
more teach it you than Pindar could have taught you how to 
make an ode. You breathed the aroma, but you could no more 
seize and analyse it, than, with the opening of your naked hand, 
you could carry off the scent of a rose. I soon left my father in 
peace to Cardan, and to the Great Book, which last, by the way, 
advanced but slowly. For Uncle Jack had now insisted on its 
being published in quarto, with illustrative plates ; and those 
plates took an immense time, and were to cost an immense 
sum — but that cost was the affair of the Anti-Publisher Society. 
But how can I settle to work by myself? No sooner have I got 
into my room — penitus ah orbe divisus, as I rashly think — than 
there is a tap at the door. Now it is my mother, who is 
benevolently engaged upon making curtains to all the windows 
(a trifling superfluity that Bolt had forgotten or disdained), and 
who wants to know how the draperies are fashioned at Mr. 
Trevanion’s? a pretence to have me near her, and see with her 
own eyes that I am not fretting ; the moment she hears I have 
shut myself up in my room, she is sure that it is for sorrow. 
Now it is Bolt, who is making book-shelves for my father, and 
desires to consult me at every turn, especially as I have given 
him a Gothic design, which pleases him hugely. Now it is 
Blanche, whom, in an evil hour, I undertook to teach to draw, 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


245 


and who comes in on tiptoe, vowing she’ll not disturb me, and 
sits so quiet that she fidgets me out of all patience. Now, and 
much more often, it is the Captain, who wants me to walk, to 
ride, to fish. And, by St. Hubert ! (saint of the chase) bright 
August comes — and there is moor-game on those barren wolds 
— and my uncle has given me the gun he shot with at my age 
— single-barrelled, flint lock — but you would not have laughed 
at it if you had seen the strange feats it did in Roland’s hands — 
while in mine, I could always lay the blame on the flint lock ! 
Time, in short, passed rapidly ; and if Roland and I had our 
dark hours, we chased them away before they could settle — shot 
them on the wing as they got up. 

Then, too, though the immediate scenery around my uncle’s 
was so bleak and desolate, the country within a few miles was 
so full of objects of interest — of landscapes so poetically grand 
or lovely ; and occasionally we coaxed my father from the Cardan, 
and spent whole days by the margin of some glorious lake. 

Amongst these excursions, I made one by myself to that 
house in which my father had known the bliss and the pangs of 
that stern first-love which still left its scars fresh on my own 
memory. The house, large and imposing, was shut up — the 
Trevanions had not been there for years — the pleasure-grounds 
had been contracted into the smallest possible space. There 
was no positive decay or ruin — that Trevanion would never 
have allowed ; but there was the dreary look of absenteeship 
everywhere. I penetrated into the house with the help of my 
card and half-a-crown. I saw that memorable boudoir — I could 
fancy the very spot in which my father had heard the sentence 
that had changed the current of his life. And when I returned 
home, I looked with new tenderness on my father’s placid 
brow — and blessed anew that tender helpmate who, in her 
patient love, had chased from it every shadow. 

I had received one letter from Vivian a few days after our 
arrival. It had been re-directed from my father’s house, at 
which I had given him my address. It was short, but seemed 
cheerful. He said, that he believed he had at last hit on the 
right way, and should keep to it — that he and the world were 
better friends than they had been— that the only way to keep 
friends with the world was to treat it as a tamed tiger, and have 
one hand on a crowbar while one fondled the beast with the 
other. He enclosed me a bank-note, which somewhat more 
than covered his debt to me, and bade me pay him the surplus 
when he should claim it as a millionaire. He gave me no 


246 


THE CAXTONS: 


address in his letter, but it bore the post-mark of Godaiming. 
I bad the impertinent curiosity to look into an old topographical 
work upon Surrey, and in a supplemental itinerary I found 
this passage, “ To the left of the beech-wood, three miles from 
Godaiming, you catch a glimpse of the elegant seat of Francis 
Vivian, Esq.” To judge by the date of the work, the said 
Francis Vivian might be the grandfather of my friend, his name- 
sake. There could no longer be any doubt as to the parentage 
of this prodigal son. 

The long vacation was now nearly over, and all his guests 
were to leave the poor Captain. In fact, we had made a con- 
siderable trespass on his hospitality. It was settled that I was 
to accompany my father and mother to their long-neglected 
penates, and start thence for Cambridge. 

Our parting was sorrowful — even Mrs. Primmins wept as she 
shook hands with Bolt. But Bolt, an old soldier, was of course 
a lady’s man. The brothers did not shake hands only — they 
fondly embraced, as brothers of that time of life rarely do now- 
a-days, except on the stage. And Blanche, with one arm 
round my mother’s neck and one round mine, sobbed in my 
ear — “ But I will be your little wife, I will.” Finally, the fly- 
coach once more received us all — all but poor Blanche, and we 
looked round and missed her. 


CHAPTER VI 

ALMA MATER ! Alma Mater ! New-fashioned folks, with 
their large theories of education, may find fault with thee. 
But a true Spartan mother thou art — hard and stern as the old 
matron who bricked up her son Pausanias, bringing the first stone 
to immure him ; hard and stern, I say, to the worthless, but 
full of majestic tenderness to the worthy. 

For a young man to go up to Cambridge (I say nothing of 
Oxford, knowing nothing thereof) merely as routine work, to 
lounge through three years to a degree among the ot 7roAAot— 
for such an one, Oxford Street herself, whom the immortal 
Opium-Eater hath so direly apostrophised, is not a more care- 
less and stony-hearted mother. But for him who will read, 
who will work, who will seize the rare advantages proffered, 
who will select his friends judiciously — yea, out of that vast 
ferment of young idea in its lusty vigour, choose the good and 


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247 


reject the bad — there is plenty to make those three years rich 
with fruit imperishable — three years nobly spent, even though 
one must pass over the Ass’s Bridge to get into the Temple 
of Honour. 

Important changes in the Academical system have been 
recently announced, and honours are henceforth to be accorded 
to the successful disciples in moral and natural sciences. By 
the side of the old throne of Mathesis, they have placed two 
very useful fauteuils a la Voltaire. I have no objection ; but, 
in those three years of life, it is not so much the thing learned, 
as the steady perseverance in learning something that is 
excellent. 

It was fortunate, in one respect, for me that I had seen a 
little of the real world — the metropolitan, before I came to that 
mimic one — the cloistral. For what were called pleasures in 
the last, and which might have allured me, had I come fresh 
from school, had no charm for me now. Hard drinking and 
high play, a certain mixture of coarseness and extravagance, 
made the fashion among the idle when I was at the University, 
console Planco — when Wordsworth was master of Trinity : it 
may be altered now. 

But I had already outlived such temptations, and so, naturally, 
I was thrown out of the society of the idle, and somewhat into 
that of the laborious. 

Still, to speak frankly, I had no longer the old pleasure in 
books. If my acquaintance with the great world had destroyed 
the temptation to puerile excesses, it had also increased my 
constitutional tendency to practical action. And alas ! in spite 
of all the benefit I had derived from Robert Hall, there were 
times when memory was so poignant that I had no choice but 
to rush from the lonely room haunted by tempting phantoms 
too dangerously fair, and sober down the fever of the heart by 
some violent bodily fatigue. The ardour which belongs to 
early youth, and which it best dedicates to knowledge, had been 
charmed prematurely to shrines less severely sacred. Therefore, 
though I laboured, it was with that full sense of labour which 
(as I found at a much later period of life) the truly triumphant 
student never knows. Learning — that marble image — warms 
into life, not at the toil of the chisel, but the worship of the 
sculptor. The mechanical workman finds but the voiceless 
stone. 

At my uncle’s, such a thing as a newspaper rarely made its 
appearance. At Cambridge, even among reading men, the news- 


248 


THE CAXTONS : 


papers had their due importance. Politics ran high ; and I had 
not been three days at Cambridge before I heard Trevanion’s 
name. Newspapers, therefore, had their charms for me. Tre- 
vanion’s prophecy about himself seemed about to be fulfilled. 
There were rumours of changes in the Cabinet. Trevanion’s 
name was bandied to and fro, struck from praise to blame, high 
and low, as a shuttlecock. Still the changes were not made, 
and the Cabinet held firm. Not a word in the Morning Post , 
under the head of fashionable intelligence, as to rumours that 
would have agitated me more than the rise and fall of govern- 
ments — no hint of “the speedy nuptials of the daughter and 
sole heiress of a distinguished and wealthy commoner ; ” only 
now and then, in enumerating the circle of brilliant guests at 
the house of some party chief, I gulped back the heart that 
rushed to my lips, when I saw the names of Lady Ellinor and 
Miss Trevanion. 

But amongst all that prolific progeny of the periodical press — 
remote offspring of my great namesake and ancestor (for I hold 
the faith of my father) — where was the Literary Times ? — what 
had so long retarded its promised blossoms ? Not a leaf in the 
shape of advertisements had yet emerged from its mother earth. 
I hoped from my heart that the whole thing was abandoned, 
and would not mention it in my letters home, lest 1 should 
revive the mere idea of it. But, in default of the Literari) Times, 
there did appear a new journal, a daily journal, too, a tall, 
slender, and meagre stripling, with a vast head, by way of 
prospectus, which protruded itself for three weeks successively 
at the top of the leading article ; — with a fine and subtle body 
of paragraphs ; — and the smallest legs, in the way of advertise- 
ments, that any poor newspaper ever stood upon ! And yet 
this attenuated journal had a plump and plethoric title, a title 
that smacked of turtle and venison ; an aldermanic, portly, 
grandiose, Falstaffian title — it was called The Capitalist. And 
all those fine, subtle paragraphs were larded out with recipes 
how to make money. There was an El Dorado in every 
sentence. To believe that paper, you would think no man had 
ever yet found a proper return for his pounds, shillings, and 
pence. You would turn up your nose at twenty per cent. 
There was a great deal about Ireland — not her wrongs, thank 
Heaven ! but her fisheries : a long inquiry what had become of 
the pearls for which Britain was once so famous : a learned 
disquisition upon certain lost gold mines now happily re-dis 
covered ; a very ingenious proposition to turn London smoke 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


249 


into manure, by a new chemical process : recommendations to 
the poor to hatch chickens in ovens like the ancient Egyptians ; 
agricultural schemes for sowing the waste lands in England 
with onions, upon the system adopted near Bedford — net pro- 
duce one hundred pounds an acre. In short, according to that 
paper, every rood of ground might well maintain its man, and 
every shilling be like Hobson’s money-bag, “ the fruitful parent 
of a hundred more.” For three days, at the newspaper room of 
the Union Club, men talked of this journal ; some pished, some 
sneered, some wondered ; till an ill-natured mathematician, 
who had just taken his degree, and had spare time on his hands, 
sent a long letter to the Morning Chronicle showing up more 
blunders, in some article to which the editor of The Capitalist 
had specially invited attention, than would have paved the 
whole island of Laputa. After that time, not a soul read The 
Capitalist . How long it dragged on its existence I know not ; 
but it certainly did not die of a maladie de langueur. 

Little thought I, when I joined in the laugh against The 
Capitalist, that I ought rather to have followed it to its grave, 
in black crape and weepers, — unfeeling wretch that I was ! 
But, like a poet, O Capitalist ! thou wert not discovered, and 
appreciated, and prized, and mourned, till thou wert dead and 
buried, and the bill came in for thy monument ! 

The first term of my college life was just expiring, when I 
received a letter from my mother, so agitated, so alarming — 
at first reading so unintelligible — that I could only see that 
some great misfortune had befallen us ; and I stopped short 
and dropped on my knees to pray for the life and health of 
those whom that misfortune more specially seemed to menace ; 
and then — and then, towards the end of the last blurred sen- 
tence, read twice, thrice, over — I could cry, “Thank Heaven, 
thank Heaven ! it is only, then, money after all 1 ” 


PART XI 


CHAPTER I 

rPHE next day, on the outside of the Cambridge Telegraph, 
“*■ there was one passenger who ought to have impressed his 
fellow-travellers with a very respectful idea of his lore in the 
dead languages ; for not a single syllable, in a live one, did 
he vouchsafe to utter from the moment he ascended that “ bad 
eminence,” to the moment in which he regained his mother 
earth. “ Sleep,” says honest Sancho, “ covers a man better 
than a cloak.” I am ashamed of thee, honest Sancho ! thou 
art a sad plagiarist : for Tibullus said pretty nearly the same 
thing before thee, — 

“ Te somnus fusco velavit amictu.” 1 

But is not silence as good a cloak as sleep ? — does it not wrap 
a man round with as offusc and impervious a fold ? Silence — 
what a world it covers ! — what busy schemes — what bright 
hopes, and dark fears — what ambition, or what despair ! Do 
you ever see a man in any society sitting mute for hours, and 
not feel an uneasy curiosity to penetrate the wall he thus 
builds up between others and himself? Does he not interest 
you far more than the brilliant talker at your left — the airy 
wit at your right, whose shafts fall in vain on the sullen barrier 
of the silent man ! Silence, dark sister of Nox and Erebus, 
how, layer upon layer, shadow upon shadow, blackness upon 
blackness, thou stretchest thyself from hell to heaven, over thy 
two chosen haunts — man’s heart and the grave ! 

So, then, wrapped in my greatcoat and my silence, I per- 
formed my journey ; and on the evening of the second day I 
reached the old-fashioned brick house. How shrill on my 
ears sounded the bell ! How strange and ominous to mv 
impatience seemed the light gleaming across the windows of 

1 Tibullus, iii. 4, 55 . 

250 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


251 


the hall ! How my heart beat as I watched the face of the 
servant who opened the gate to my summons ! 

"All well ? ” cried I. 

“ All well, sir/’ answered the servant cheerfully. " Mr. 
Squills, indeed, is with master, but I don’t think there is any- 
thing the matter.” 

But now my mother appeared at the threshold, and I was in 
her arms. 

“ Sisty, Sisty ! — my dear, dear son ! — beggared, perhaps — and 
my fault — mine.” 

"Yours ! — come into this room — out of hearing — your fault?” 

"Yes — yes! — for if I had had no brother, or if I had not 
been led away, — if I had, as I ought, entreated poor Austin 
not to ” '* 

" My dear, dearest mother, you accuse yourself for what, it 
seems, was my uncle’s misfortune — I am sure not even his fault! 
(I made a gulp there.) No, lay the fault on the right shoulders 
— the defunct shoulders of that horrible progenitor, William 
Caxton the printer, for, though I don’t yet know the particulars 
of what has happened, I will lay a wager it is connected with 
that fatal invention of printing. Come, come — my father is 
well, is he not ? ” 

"Yes, thank Heaven.” 

" And I, too, and Roland, and little Blanche ! Why, then 
you are right to thank Heaven, for your true treasures are 
untouched. But sit down and explain, pray.” 

" I cannot explain. I do not understand anything more than 

that he, my brother, — mine ! — has involved Austin in — in ” 

(A fresh burst of tears.) 

I comforted, scolded, laughed, preached, and adjured in a 
breath ; and then, drawing my mother gently on, entered my 
father’s study. 

At the table was seated Mr. Squills, pen in hand, and a glass 
of his favourite punch by his side. My father was standing 
on the hearth, a shade more pale, but with a resolute expression 
on his countenance, which was new to its indolent thoughtful 
mildness. He lifted his eyes as the door opened, and then, 
putting his finger to his lips, as he glanced towards my mother, 
he said gaily, " No great harm done. Don’t believe her ! 
Women always exaggerate, and make realities of their own 
bugbears : it is the voice of their lively imaginations, as Wierus 
has clearly shown in accounting for the marks, moles, and hare 
lips which they inflict upon their innocent infants before they 


252 


THE CAXTONS: 


are even born. My dear boy/’ added my father, as I here kissed 
him and smiled in his face, “ I thank you for that smile ! God 
bless you ! ” He wrung my hand, and turned a little aside. 

“ It is a great comfort,” renewed my father, alter a short pause, 
“to know, when a misfortune happens, that it could not be 
helped. Squills has just discovered that I have no bump of 
cautiousness ; so that, craniologically speaking, if I had escaped 
one imprudence, I should certainly have run my head against 
another.” 

“A man with your development is made to be taken in,” 
said Mr. Squills consolingly. 

“ Do you hear that, my own Kitty ? and have you the heart 
to blame Jack any longer — a poor creature cursed with a bump 
that would take in the Stock Exchange ? And can any one 
resist his bump. Squills ? ” 

“ Impossible ! ” said the surgeon authoritatively. 

“Sooner or later it must involve him in its airy meshes — eh. 
Squills ? entrap him into its fatal cerebral cell. There his fate 
waits him, like the ant-lion in its pit.” 

“ Too true,” quoth Squills. “ What a phrenological lecturer 
you would have made ! ” 

“ Go, then, my love,” said my father, “ and lay no blame but 
on this melancholy cavity of mine, where cautiousness — is not ! 
Go, and let Sisty have some supper ; for Squills says that he 
has a fine development of the mathematical organs, and we 
want his help. We are hard at work on figures, Pisistratus.” 

My mother looked broken-hearted, and, obeying submissively, 
stole to the door without a word. But as she reached the 
threshold she turned round, and beckoned to me to follow her. 

I whispered my father and went out. My mother was 
standing in the hall, and I saw by the lamp that she had dried 
her tears, and that her face, though very sad, was more com- 
posed. 

“ Sisty,” she said, in a low voice which struggled to be firm, 
“promise me that you will tell me all — the worst, Sisty. They 
keep it from me, and that is my hardest punishment ; for when 
I don’t know all that he — that Austin suffers, it seems to me 
as if I had lost his heart. Oh, Sisty ! my child, my child, don’t 
fear me ! I shall be happy whatever befalls us, if I once get 
back my privilege — my privilege, Sisty, to comfort, to share ! — 
do you understand me ? ” 

“Yes, indeed, my mother! And with your good sense, and 
clear woman’s wit, if you will but feel how much we want them. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


253 


you will be the best counsellor we could have. So never fear ; 
you and I will have no secrets/’ 

My mother kissed me, and went away with a less heavy step. 

As I re-entered, my father came across the room and em 
braced me. 

“ My son,” he said in a faltering voice, “ if your modest 
prospects in life are ruined ” 

“ Father, father, can you think of me at such a moment ! Me ! 
— Is it possible to ruin the young, and strong, and healthy ! Ruin 
me, with these thews and sinews ! ruin me, with the education you 
have given me— thews and sinews of the mind ! Oh no ! there, 
Fortune is harmless ! And you forget, sir, — the saffron bag! ” 

Squills leapt up, and, wiping his eyes with one hand, gave 
me a sounding slap on the shoulder with the other. 

“ I am proud of the care I took of your infancy, Master Caxton. 
That comes of strengthening the digestive organs in early child- 
hood. Such sentiments are a proof of magnificent ganglions 
in a perfect state of order. When a man’s tongue is as smooth 
as I am sure yours is, he slips through misfortune like an eel.” 

I laughed outright, my father smiled faintly ; and, seating my- 
self, I drew towards me a paper filled with Squills’s memoranda, 
and said, “ Now to find the unknown quantity. What on earth 
is this ? ‘ Supposed value of books, £ 750 .’ Oh, father ! this is 

impossible. I was prepared for anything but that. Your books 
— they are your life ? ” 

“ Nay,” said my father ; “ after all, they are the offending 
party in this case, and so ought to be the principal victims. 
Besides, I believe I know most of them by heart. But, in 
truth, we are only entering all our effects, to be sure (added my 
father proudly) that, come what may, we are not dishonoured.” 

“ Humour him,” whispered Squills ; “we will save the books.” 
Then he added aloud, as he laid finger and thumb on my pulse, 
“ One, two, three, about seventy — capital pulse — soft and full — 
he can bear the whole : let us administer it.” 

My father nodded — “ Certainly. But, Pisistratus, we must 
manage your dear mother. Why she should think of blaming 
herself, because poor Jack took wrong ways to enrich us, I 
cannot understand. But, as I have had occasion before to re- 
mark, Sphinx is a noun feminine.” 

My poor father ! that was a vain struggle for thy wonted 
innocent humour. The lips quivered. 

Then the story came out. It seems that, when it was resolved 
to undertake the publication of the Literary Times, a certain 


254 


THE CAXTONS: 


number of shareholders had been got together by the indefati- 
gable energies of Uncle Jack ; and in the deed of association and 
partnership, my father’s name figured conspicuously as the 
holder of a fourth of this joint-property. If in this my father 
had committed some imprudence, he had at least done nothing 
that, according to the ordinary calculations of a secluded student, 
could become ruinous. But, just at the time when we were in 
the hurry of leaving town, Jack had represented to my father 
that it might be necessary to alter a little the plan of the 
paper ; and, in order to allure a larger circle of readers, touch 
somewhat on the more vulgar news and interests of the day. 
A change of plan might involve a change of title ; and he 
suggested to my father the expediency of leaving the smooth 
hands of Mr. Tibbets altogether unfettered, as to the technical 
name and precise form of the publication. To this my father 
had unwittingly assented, on hearing that the other shareholders 
would do the same. Mr. Peck, a printer of considerable opu- 
lence, and highly respectable name, had been found to advance 
the sum necessary for the publication of the earlier numbers, 
upon the guarantee of the said act of partnership and the 
additional security of my father’s signature to a document, 
authorising Mr. Tibbets to make any change in the form or title 
of the periodical that might be judged advisable, concurrent 
with the consent of the other shareholders. 

Now', it seems that Mr. Peck had, in his previous conferences 
with Mr. Tibbets, thrown much cold water on the idea of the 
Literary Times , and had suggested something that should “ catch 
the monied public,” — the fact being, as was afterwards dis- 
covered, that the printer, whose spirit of enterprise was con- 
genial to Uncle Jack’s, had shares in three or four speculations, 
to which he w r as naturally glad of an opportunity to invite the 
attention of the public. In a word, no sooner was my poor 
father’s back turned, than the Literary Times was dropped in- 
continently, and Mr. Peck and Mr. Tibbets began to concentrate 
their luminous notions into that brilliant and comet-like ap- 
parition which ultimately blazed forth under the title of The 
Capitalist. 

From this change of enterprise the more prudent and re- 
sponsible of the original shareholders had altogether with- 
drawn. A majority, indeed, were left ; but the greater part of 
those were shareholders of that kind most amenable to the 
influences of Uncle Jack, and willing to be shareholders in 
anything, since as yet they w^ere possessors of nothing. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


255 


Assured of my father’s responsibility, the adventurous Peck 
put plenty of spirit into the first launch of The Capitalist. All 
the walls were placarded with its announcements ; circular 
advertisements ran from one end of the kingdom to the other. 
Agents were engaged, correspondents levied en masse. The 
invasion of Xerxes on the Greeks was not more munificently 
provided for than that of The Capitalist upon the credulity and 
avarice of mankind. 

But as Providence bestows upon fishes the instrument of fins, 
whereby they balance and direct their movements, however 
rapid and erratic, through the pathless deeps ; so to the cold- 
blooded creatures of our own species — that may be classed 
under the genus money-makers — the same protective power 
accords the fin-like properties of prudence and caution, where- 
with your true money-getter buoys and guides himself majestic- 
ally through the great seas of speculation. In short, the fishes 
the net was cast for were all scared from the surface at the first 
splash. They came round and smelt at the mesh with their 
sharp bottle-noses, and then, plying those invaluable fins, made 
off as fast as they could — plunging into the mud — hiding them- 
selves under rocks and coral banks. Metaphor apart, the 
capitalists buttoned up their pockets, and would have nothing 
to say to their namesake. 

Not a word of this change, so abhorrent to all the notions of 
poor Augustine Caxton, had been breathed to him by Peck or 
Tibbets. He ate, and slept, and worked at the Great Book, 
occasionally wondering why he had not heard of the advent of 
the Literary Times, unconscious of all the awful responsibilities 
which The Capitalist was entailing on him, knowing no more of 
The Capitalist than he did of the last loan of the Rothschilds. 

Difficult was it for all other human nature, save my father’s, 
not to breathe an indignant anathema on the scheming head of 
the brother-in-law who had thus violated the most sacred obliga- 
tions of trust and kindred, and so entangled an unsuspecting 
recluse. But, to give even Jack Tibbets his due, he had firmly 
convinced himself that The Capitalist would make my father’s 
fortune ; and if he did not announce to him the strange and 
anomalous development into which the original sleeping chrysalis 
of the Literary Times had taken portentous wing, it was purely 
and wholly in the knowledge that my father’s "prejudices,” as he 
termed them, would stand in the way of his becoming a Croesus. 
And, in fact, Uncle Jack had believed so heartily in his own 
project, that he had put himself thoroughly into Mr. Peck’s 


256 


THE CAXTONS: 


power, signed bills, in his own name, to some fabulous amount, 
and was actually now in the Fleet, whence his penitential and 
despairing confession was dated, arriving simultaneously with a 
short letter from Mr. Peck, wherein that respectable printer 
apprised my father that he had continued, at his own risk, the 
publication of The Capitalist , as far as a prudent care for his 
family would permit ; that he need not say that a new daily 
journal was a very vast experiment ; that the expense of such a 
paper as The Capitalist was immeasurably greater than that of 
a mere literary periodical, as originally suggested ; and that 
now, being constrained to come upon the shareholders for the 
sums he had advanced, amounting to several thousands, he re- 
quested my father to settle with him immediately — delicately 
implying that Mr. Caxton himself might settle as he could with 
the other shareholders, most of whom, he grieved to add, he 
had been misled by Mr. Tibbets into believing to be men of 
substance, when in reality they were men of straw ! 

Nor was this all the evil. The “ Great Anti-Bookseller 
Publishing Society,” — which had maintained a struggling exist- 
ence — evinced by advertisements of sundry forthcoming works 
of solid interest and enduring nature, wherein, out of a long 
list, amidst a pompous array of “ Poems ; ” “ Dramas not in- 
tended for the Stage ; ” “ Essays by Phileutheros, Philanthropos, 
Philopolis, Philodemus, and Philalethes,” stood prominently 
forth, “The History of Human Error, Vols. I. and II., quarto, 
with illustrations,” — the “Anti-Bookseller Society,” I say, that 
had hitherto evinced nascent and budding life by these exfolia- 
tions from its slender stem, died of a sudden blight, the moment 
its sun, in the shape of Uncle Jack, set in the Cimmerian 
regions of the Pleet ; and a polite letter from another printer 
(O William Caxton, William Caxton !— fatal progenitor !) — in- 
forming my father of this event, stated complimentarily that it 
was to him “as the most respectable member of the Associa- 
tion,” that the said printer would be compelled to look for 
expenses incurred, not only in the very costly edition of the 
“ History of Human Error,” but for those incurred in the print 
and paper devoted to “ Poems,” “ Dramas not intended for the 
Stage,” “ Essays by Phileutheros, Philanthropos, Philopolis, 
Philodemus, and Philalethes,” with sundry other works, no 
doubt of a very valuable nature, but in which a considerable loss, 
in a pecuniary point of view, must be necessarily expected. 

I own that, as soon as I had mastered the above agreeable 
facts, and ascertained from Mr. Squills that my father really did 


A FAMILY PICTURE 257 

seem to have rendered himself legally liable to these demands, 
I leant back in my chair, stunned and bewildered. 

“So you see,” said my father, “that as yet we are contending 
with monsters in the dark — in the dark all monsters look larger 
and uglier. Even Augustus Caesar, though certainly he had 
never scrupled to make as many ghosts as suited his conveni- 
ence, did not like the chance of a visit from them, and never 
sat alone in tenebris. What the amount of the sums claimed 
from me may be, we know not ; what may be gained from the 
other shareholders is equally obscure and undefined. But the 
first thing to do is to get poor Jack out of prison.” 

“ Uncle Jack out of prison ! ” exclaimed I ; “ surely, sir, that 
is carrying forgiveness too far.” 

“ Why, he would not have been in prison if I had not been 
so blindly forgetful of his weakness, poor man ! I ought to have 
known better. But my vanity misled me ; I must needs publish 
a great book, as if (said Mr. Caxton, looking round the shelves) 
there were not great books enough in the world ! I must needs, 
too, think of advancing and circulating knowledge in the form 
of a journal — I, who had not knowledge enough of the character 
of my own brother-in-law to keep myself from ruin ! Come 
what will, I should think myself the meanest of men to let 
that poor creature, whom I ought to have considered as a 
monomaniac, rot in prison, because I, Austin Caxton, wanted 
common sense. And (concluded my father, resolutely) he is 
your mother’s brother, Pisistratus. I should have gone to town 
at once ; but, hearing that my wife had written to you, I waited 
till I could leave her to the companionship of hope and comfort 
— two blessings that smile upon every mother in the face of a 
son like you. To-morrow I go.” 

“Not a bit of it,” said Mr. Squills firmly; “as your medical 
adviser, I forbid you to leave the house for the next six days.” 


CHAPTER II 


CIR,” continued Mr. Squills, biting off the end of a cigar 
^ which he pulled from his pocket, “you concede to me 
that it is a very important business on which you propose to go 
to London.” 

“ Of that there is no doubt,” replied my father. 

“ And the doing of business well or ill entirely depends upon 


258 


THE CAXTONS: 


the habit of body!” cried Mr. Squills triumphantly. “Do you 
know, Mr. Caxton, that while you are looking so calm, and 
talking so quietly — just on purpose to sustain your son and 
delude your wife — do you know that your pulse, which is natu- 
rally little more than sixty, is nearly a hundred ? Do you know, 
sir, that your mucous membranes are in a state of high irrita- 
tion, apparent by the papillae at the tip of your tongue ? And 
if, with a pulse like this, and a tongue like that, you think of 
settling money matters with a set of sharp-witted tradesmen, 
all I can say is, that you are a ruined man.” 

“ But — ” began my father. 

“ Did not Squire Rollick,” pursued Mr. Squills — “ Squire 
Rollick, the hardest head at a bargain I know of — did not 
Squire Rollick sell that pretty little farm of his, Scranny Holt, 
for thirty per cent, below its value ? And what was the cause, 
sir ? — the whole country was in amaze ! — what was the cause, 
but an incipient simmering attack of the yellow jaundice, which 
made him take a gloomy view of human life, and the agri- 
cultural interest ? On the other hand, did not Lawyer Cool, 
the most prudent man in the three kingdoms — Lawyer Cool, 
who was so methodical, that all the clocks in the county were 
set by his watch — plunge one morning head over heels into 
a frantic speculation for cultivating the bogs in Ireland ? (His 
watch did not go right for the next three months, which made 
our whole shire an hour in advance of the rest of England !) 
And what was the cause of that nobody knew, till I was called 
in, and found the cerebral membrane in a state of acute irrita- 
tion, probably just in the region of his acquisitiveness and 
ideality. No, Mr. Caxton, you will stay at home, and take a 
soothing preparation I shall send you, of lettuce leaves and 
marsh-mallows. But I,” continued Squills, lighting his cigar, 
and taking two determined whiffs — “but / will go up to town 
and settle the business for you, and take with me this young 
gentleman, whose digestive functions are just in a state to deal 
safely with those horrible elements of dyspepsia — the L. S. D.” 

As he spoke, Mr. Squills set his foot significantly upon mine. 

“But,” resumed my father mildly, “though I thank you 
very much, Squills, for your kind offer, I do not recognise the 
necessity of accepting it. I am not so bad a philosopher as 
you seem to imagine ; and the blow I have received has not 
so deranged my physical organisation as to render me unfit to 
transact my affairs.” 

“ Hum ! ” grunted Squills, starting up and seizing my father’s 


A FAMILY PICTURE 259 

pulse; “ ninety-six — ninety-six if a beat! And the tongue, 
sir ! ” 

“ Pshaw ! ” quoth my father, “ you have not even seen my 
tongue ! ” 

“ No need of that, I know what it is by the state of the eye- 
lids — tip scarlet, sides rough as a nutmeg-grater ! ” 

“ Pshaw ! ” again said my father, this time impatiently. 

“Well/’ said Squills solemnly, “it is my duty to say (here 
my mother entered, to tell me that supper was ready), and I 
say it to you, Mrs. Caxton, and to you, Mr. Pisistratus Caxton, as 
the parties most nearly interested, that if you, sir, go to London 
upon this matter. I’ll not answer for the consequences.” 

“ Oh ! Austin, Austin,” cried my mother, running up and 
throwing her arms round my father’s neck ; while I, little less 
alarmed by Squills’s serious tone and aspect, represented 
strongly the inutility of Mr. Caxton’s personal interference at 
the present moment. All he could do on arriving in town 
would be to put the matter into the hands of a good lawyer, 
and that we could do for him ; it would be time enough to 
send for him when the extent of the mischief done was more 
clearly ascertained. Meanwhile Squills griped my father’s 
pulse, and my mother hung on his neck. 

“ Ninety-six — ninety-seven ! ” groaned Squills in a hollow 
voice. 

“ I don’t believe it ! ” cried my father, almost in a passion — 
“never better nor cooler in my life.” 

“ And the tongue — look at his tongue, Mrs. Caxton — a tongue, 
ma’am, so bright that you could see to read by it ! ” 

“ Oh ! Austin, Austin ! ” 

“ My dear, it is not my tongue that is in fault, I assure you,” 
said my father, speaking through his teeth; “and the man 
knows no more of my tongue than he does of the Mysteries 
of Eleusis.” 

“ Put it out then,” exclaimed Squills, “ and if he be not as 
I say, you have my leave to go to London, and throw your 
whole fortune into the two great pits you have dug for it. Put 
it out ! ” 

“ Mr. Squills ! ” said my father, colouring — “ Mr. Squills, for 
shame ! ” 

“ Dear, dear Austin ! your hand is so hot — you are feverish, I 
am sure.” 

“Not a bit of it.” 

“ But, sir, only just gratify Mr. Squills,” said I coaxingly. 


260 


THE CAXTONS : 


“ There, there ! ” said my father, fairly baited into submission, 
and shyly exhibiting for a moment the extremest end of the 
vanquished organ of eloquence. 

Squills darted forward his lynx-like eyes. “ Red as a lobster, 
and rough as a gooseberry-bush!” cried Squills, in a tone of 
savage joy. 


CHAPTER III 

IJj OW was it possible for one poor tongue, so reviled and 
persecuted, so humbled, insulted, and triumphed over — to 
resist three tongues in league against it ? 

Finally, my father yielded, and Squills, in high spirits, de- 
clared, that he would go to supper with me, to see that I ate 
nothing that could tend to discredit his reliance on my system. 
Leaving my mother still with her Austin, the good surgeon then 
took my arm, and, as soon as we were in the next room, shut the 
door carefully, wiped his forehead, and said — “ I think we have 
saved him ! ” 

“ Would it really, then, have injured my father so much ?” 

“ So much ! — why, you foolish young man, don’t you see that, 
with his ignorance of business, w here he himself is concerned — 
though for any other one’s business, neither Rollick nor Cool 
has a better judgment — and with his d — d Quixotic spirit of 
honour worked up into a state of excitement, he would have 
rushed to Mr. Tibbets and exclaimed, f How much do you owe ? 
there it is ! ’ settled in the same way with these printers, and 
come back without a sixpence ; whereas you and I can look coolly 
about us, and reduce the inflammation to the minimum ! ” 

“ I see, and thank you heartily, Squills.” 

“Besides,” said the surgeon, with more feeling, “your father 
has really been making a noble effort over himself. He suffers 
more than you would think — not for himself (for I do believe 
that, if he were alone in the world, he would be quite contented 
if he could save fifty pounds a year and his books), but for your 
mother and yourself ; and a fresh access of emotional excitement, 
all the nervous anxiety of a journey to London on such a 
business, might have ended in a paralytic or epileptic affection. 
Now we have him here snug ; and the worst news we can give 
him will be better than what he will make up his mind for. But 
you don’t eat.” 

“ Eat ! How can I ? My poor father ! ” 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


261 

“The effect of grief upon the gastric juices, through the 
nervous system, is very remarkable,” said Mr. Squills philosophi- 
cally, and helping himself to a broiled bone; “it increases the 
thirst, while it takes away hunger. No — don’t touch port ! — 
heating ! Sherry and water.” 


CHAPTER IV 

H^HE house-door had closed upon Mr. Squills — that gentleman 
having promised to breakfast with me the next morning, so 
that we might take the coach from our gate— and I remained 
alone, seated by the supper-table, and revolving all I had heard, 
when my father walked in. 

“ Pisistratus,” said he gravely, and looking round him, “your 
mother ! — suppose the worst — your first care, then, must be to 
try and secure something for her. You and I are men — we can 
never want, while we have health of mind and body; but a 
woman — and if anything happens to me ” 

My father’s lip writhed as it uttered these brief sentences. 

“ My dear, dear father ! ” said I, suppressing my tears with 
difficulty, “ all evils, as you yourself said, look worse by anticipa- 
tion. It is impossible that your whole fortune can be involved. 
The newspaper did not run many weeks ; and only the first 
volume of your work is printed. Besides, there must be other 
shareholders who will pay their quota. Believe me, I feel 
sanguine as to the result of my embassy. As for my poor 
mother, it is not the loss of fortune that will wound her — 
depend on it, she thinks very little of that ; it is the loss of 
your confidence.” 

“ My confidence ! ” 

“ Ah yes ! tell her all your fears, as your hopes. Do not let 
your affectionate pity exclude her from one corner of your 
heart.” 

“It is that — it is that , Austin, — my husband — my joy — my 
pride — my soul — my all !” cried a soft broken voice. 

My mother had crept in, unobserved by us. 

My father looked at us both, and the tears which had before 
stood in his eyes forced their way. Then opening his arms, into 
which his Kitty threw herself joyfully — he lifted those moist 
eyes upward, and, by the movement of his lips, I saw that he 
thanked God. 


262 


THE CAXTONS : 


I stole out of the room. I felt that those two hearts should 
be left to beat and to blend alone. And from that hour, I am 
convinced that Augustine Caxton acquired a stouter philosophy 
than that of the stoics. The fortitude that concealed pain was 
no longer needed, for the pain was no longer felt. 


CHAPTER V 

"IV/TR. SQUILLS and I performed our journey without ad- 
* venture, and, as we were not alone on the coach, with 
little conversation. We put up at a small inn in the City, and 
the next morning I sallied forth to see Trevanion — for we agreed 
that he would be the best person to advise us. But, on arriving 
at St. James’s Square, I had the disappointment of hearing that 
the whole family had gone to Paris three days before, and were 
not expected to return till the meeting of Parliament. 

This was a sad discouragement, for I had counted much on 
Trevanion’s clear head, and that extraordinary range of accom- 
plishment in all matters of business — all that related to practical 
life — which my old patron pre-eminently possessed. The next 
thing would be to find Trevanion’s lawyer (for Trevanion was 
one of those men whose solicitors are sure to be able and active). 
But the fact was, that he left so little to lawyers, that he had 
never had occasion to communicate with one since I had 
known him ; and I was therefore in ignorance of the very name 
of his solicitor ; nor could the porter, who was left in charge of 
the house, enlighten me. Luckily, I bethought myself of Sir 
Sedley Beaudesert, who could scarcely fail to give me the in- 
formation required, and who, at all events, might recommend 
to me some other lawyer. So to him I went. 

I found Sir Sedley at breakfast with a young gentleman who 
seemed about twenty. The good baronet was delighted to see 
me ; but I thought it was with a little confusion, rare to his 
cordial ease, that he presented me to his cousin. Lord Castleton. 
It was a name familiar to me, though I had never before met 
its patrician owner. 

The Marquis of Castleton was indeed a subject of envy to 
young idlers, and afforded a theme of interest to grey-beard 
politicians. Often had I heard of “ that lucky fellow Castleton,” 
who, when of age, would step into one of those colossal fortunes 
which would realise the dreams of Aladdin — a fortune that had 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


263 


been out to nurse since his minority. Often had I heard graver 
gossips wonder whether Castleton would take any active part 
in public life — whether he would keep up the family influence. 
His mother (still alive) was a superior woman, and had devoted 
herself, from his childhood, to supply a father’s loss, and fit him 
for his great position. It was said that he was clever — had 
been educated by a tutor of great academic distinction, and was 
reading for a double first class at Oxford. This young marquis 
was indeed the head of one of those few houses still left in 
England that retain feudal importance. He was important, not 
only from his rank and his vast fortune, but from an immense 
circle of powerful connections ; from the ability of his two pre- 
decessors, who had been keen politicians and cabinet-ministers ; 
from the prestige they had bequeathed to his name ; from the 
peculiar nature of his property, which gave him the returning 
interest in no less than six parliamentary seats in Great Britain 
and Ireland— besides the indirect ascendency which the head of 
the Castletons had always exercised over many powerful and 
noble allies of that princely house. I was not aware that he 
was related to Sir Sedley, whose world of action was so remote 
from politics ; and it was with some surprise that I now heard 
that announcement, and certainly with some interest that I, 
perhaps from the verge of poverty, gazed on this young heir 
of fabulous El Dorados. 

It was easy to see that Lord Castleton had been brought up 
with a careful knowledge of his future greatness, and its serious 
responsibilities. He stood immeasurably aloof from all the 
affectations common to the youth of minor patricians. He had 
not been taught to value himself on the cut of a coat, or the 
shape of a hat. His world was far above St. James’s Street and 
the clubs. He was dressed plainly, though in a style peculiar 
to himself — a white neck-cloth (which was not at that day 
quite so uncommon for morning use as it is now), trousers with- 
out straps, thin shoes and gaiters. In his manner there was 
nothing of the supercilious apathy which characterises the dandy 
introduced to some one whom he doubts if he can nod to from 
the bow-window at White’s — none of such vulgar coxcombries 
had Lord Castleton ; and yet a young gentleman more emphati- 
cally coxcomb it was impossible to see. He had been told, no 
doubt, that, as the head of a house which was almost in itself 
a party in the state, he should be bland and civil to all men ; 
and this duty being grafted upon a nature singularly cold and 
unsocial, gave to his politeness something so stiff, yet so con- 


264 


THE CAXTONS: 


descending, that it brought the blood to one’s cheek — though 
the momentary anger was counterbalanced by a sense of the 
almost ludicrous contrast between this gracious majesty of de- 
portment, and the insignificant figure, with the boyish beardless 
face, by which it was assumed. Lord Castleton did not content 
himself with a mere bow at our introduction. Much to my 
wonder how he came by the information he displayed, he made 
me a little speech after the manner of Louis XIV. to a provincial 
noble — studiously modelled upon that royal maxim of urbane 
policy which instructs a king that he should know something of 
the birth, parentage, and family of his meanest gentleman. It 
was a little speech, in which my father’s learning, and my uncle’s 
services, and the amiable qualities of your humble servant, were 
neatly interwoven — delivered in a falsetto tone, as if learned by 
heart, though it must have been necessarily impromptu ; and 
then, reseating himself, he made a gracious motion of the head 
and hand, as if to authorise me to do the same. 

Conversation succeeded, by galvanic jerks and spasmodic 
starts — a conversation that Lord Castleton contrived to tug so 
completely out of poor Sir Sedley’s ordinary course of small and 
polished small-talk, that that charming personage, accustomed, 
as he well deserved, to be Coryphaeus at his own table, was com- 
pletely silenced. With his light reading, his rich stores of 
anecdote, his good-humoured knowledge of the drawing-room 
world, he had scarce a word that would fit into the great, 
rough, serious matters which Lord Castleton threw upon the 
table, as he nibbled his toast. Nothing but the most grave and 
practical subjects of human interest seemed to attract this future 
leader of mankind. The fact is that Lord Castleton had been 
taught everything that relates to property — (a knowledge which 
embraces a very wide circumference). It had been said to him, 
"You will be an immense proprietor — knowledge is essential to 
your self-preservation. You will be puzzled, bubbled, ridiculed, 
duped every day of your life, if you do not make yourself ac- 
quainted with all by which property is assailed or defended, 
impoverished or increased. You have a vast stake in the 
country — you must learn all the interests of Europe — nay, of 
the civilised world — for those interests react on the country, and 
the interests of the country are of the greatest possible conse- 
quence to the interests of the Marquis of Castleton. Thus the 
state of the Continent -the policy of Metternich — the condition 
of the Papacy — the growth of Dissent — the proper mode of 
dealing with the general spirit of Democracy, which was the 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


265 


epidemic of European monarchies — the relative proportions of 
the agricultural and manufacturing population — corn-laws, cur- 
rency, and the laws that regulate wages — a criticism on the 
leading speakers of the House of Commons, with some discursive 
observations on the importance of fattening cattle — the intro- 
duction of flax into Ireland — emigration — the condition of the 
poor — the doctrines of Mr. Owen — the pathology of potatoes ; 
the connection between potatoes, pauperism, and patriotism ; 
these, and such-like stupendous subjects for reflection — all 
branching more or less intricately from the single idea of the 
Castleton property — the young lord discussed and disposed of in 
half-a-dozen prim, poised sentences — evincing, I must say in 
justice, no inconsiderable information, and a mighty solemn turn 
of mind. The oddity was, that the subjects so selected and 
treated should not come rather from some young barrister, or 
mature political economist, than from so gorgeous a lily of the 
field. Of a man less elevated in rank one would certainly have 
said — Cleverish, but a prig ; ” but there really was something 
so respectable in a personage born to such fortunes, and having 
nothing to do but to bask in the sunshine, voluntarily taking 
such pains with himself, and condescending to identify his own 
interests — the interests of the Castleton property — with the 
concerns of his lesser fellow-mortals, that one felt the young 
marquis had in him the stuff to become a very considerable 
man. 

Poor Sir Sedley, to whom all these matters were as unfamiliar 
as the theology of the Talmud, after some vain efforts to slide 
the conversation into easier grooves, fairly gave in, and, with a 
compassionate smile on his handsome countenance, took refuge in 
his easy-chair and the contemplation of his snuff-box. 

At last, to our great relief, the servant announced Lord 
Castleton’ s carriage : and, with another speech of overpowering 
affability to me, and a cold shake of the hand to Sir Sedley, 
Lord Castleton went his way. 

The breakfast parlour looked on the street, and I turned 
mechanically to the window as Sir Sedley followed his guest 
out of the room. A travelling carriage with four post-horses 
was at the door ; and a servant, who looked like a foreigner, was 
in waiting with his master’s cloak. As I saw Lord Castleton 
step into the street, and wrap himself in his costly mantle lined 
with sables, I observed, more than I had while he was in the 
room, the enervate slightness of his frail form, and the more 
than paleness of his thin joyless face ; and then, instead of envy. 


266 


THE CAXTONS: 


I felt compassion for the owner of all this pomp and grandeur — 
felt that I would not have exchanged my hardy health, and easy 
humour, and vivid capacities of enjoyment in things the slightest 
and most within the reach of all men, for the wealth and great- 
ness which that poor youth perhaps deserved the more for 
putting them so little to the service of pleasure. 

“ Well,” said Sir Sedley, “and what do you think of him ? ” 

“ He is just the sort of man Trevanion would like,” said I 
evasively. 

“That is true,” answered Sir Sedley, in a serious tone of 
voice, and looking at me somewhat earnestly. “ Have you 
heard ? — but no, you cannot have heard yet.” 

“ Heard what ? ” 

“My dear young friend,” said the kindest and most delicate 
of all fine gentlemen, sauntering away that he might not observe 
the emotion he caused, “ Lord Castleton is going to Paris to join 
the Trevanions. The object Lady Ellinor has had at heart 
for many a long year is won, and our pretty Fanny will be 
Marchioness of Castleton when her betrothed is of age — that 
is, in six months. The two mothers have settled it all between 
them ! ” 

I made no answer, but continued to look out of the window. 

“ This alliance,” resumed Sir Sedley, “ was all that was want- 
ing to assure Trevanion’ s position. When Parliament meets, 
he will have some great office. Poor man ! how I shall pity 
him ! It is extraordinary to me,” continued Sir Sedley, benevo- 
lently going on, that I might have full time to recover myself, 
“how contagious that disease called ‘ business’ is in our foggy 
England ! Not only Trevanion, you see, has the complaint in 
its very worst and most complicated form, but that poor dear 
cousin of mine, who is so young (here Sir Sedley sighed), and 
might enjoy himself so much, is worse than you were when 
Trevanion was fagging you to death. But, to be sure, a great 
name and position, like Castleton’ s, must be a very heavy afflic- 
tion to a conscientious mind. You see how the sense of its 
responsibilities has aged him already — positively, two great 
wrinkles under his eyes. Well, after all, I admire him, and 
respect his tutor ; a soil naturally very thin, I suspect, has been 
most carefully cultivated ; and Castleton, with Trevanion’s help, 
will be the first man in the peerage — prime minister some day, 
I dare say. And when I think of it, how grateful I ought to 
feel to his father and mother, who produced him quite in their 
old age ; for, if he had not been born, I should have been the 


t/ooh refuge in kis easy-chair and Ore 
contemplation of kis snuff-box. 




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A FAMILY PICTURE 


267 


most miserable of men — yes, positively, that horrible marquisate 
would have come to me ! I never think over Horace Walpole’s 
regrets, when he got the earldom of Orford, without the deepest 
sympathy, and without a shudder at the thought of what my 
dear Lady Castleton was kind enough to save me from— all 
owing to the Ems waters, after twenty years’ marriage ! Well, 
my young friend, and how are all at home ? ” 

As when, some notable performer not having yet arrived 
behind the scenes, or having to change his dress, or not having 
yet quite recovered an unlucky extra tumbler of exciting fluids 
— and the green curtain has therefore unduly delayed its ascent 
— you perceive that the thorough-bass in the orchestra charitably 
devotes himself to a prelude of astonishing prolixity, calling in 
“ Lodoiska or “ Der Freischutz ” to beguile the time, and allow 
the procrastinating histrio leisure sufficient to draw on his flesh- 
coloured pantaloons, and give himself the proper complexion 
for a Coriolanus or Macbeth — even so had Sir Sedley made that 
long speech, requiring no rejoinder, till he saw the time had 
arrived when he could artfully close with the flourish of a final 
interrogative, in order to give poor Pisistratus Caxton all pre- 
paration to compose himself and step forward. There is 
certainly something of exquisite kindness, and thoughtful bene- 
volence, in that rarest of gifts ,— -Jine breeding; and when now, 
remanned and resolute, I turned round and saw Sir Sedley’s 
soft blue eye shyly, but benignantly, turned to me — while, with 
a grace no other snuff-taker ever had since the days of Pope, 
he gently proceeded to refresh himself by a pinch of the cele- 
brated Beaudesert mixture — I felt my heart as gratefully moved 
towards him as if he had conferred on me some colossal obliga- 
tion. And this crowning question — "And how are all at home?” 
restored me entirely to my self-possession, and for the moment 
distracted the bitter current of my thoughts. 

I replied by a brief statement of my father’s involvement, dis- 
guising our apprehensions as to its extent, speaking of it rather as 
an annoyance than a possible cause of ruin, and ended by asking 
Sir Sedley to give me the address of Trevanion’s lawyer. 

The good baronet listened with great attention ; and that 
quick penetration which belongs to a man of the world enabled 
him to detect that I had smoothed over matters more than 
became a faithful narrator. 

He shook his head, and, seating himself on the sofa, motioned 
me to come to his side ; then, leaning his arm over my shoulder, 
he said, in his seductive, winning way — 


268 


THE CAXTONS : 


“ We two young fellows should understand each other when 
we talk of money matters. I can say to you what I could not 
say to my respectable senior — by three years; your excellent 
father. Frankly, then, I suspect this is a bad business. I know 
little about newspapers, except that I have to subscribe to one 
in my county, which costs me a small income ; but I know that 
a London daily paper might ruin a man in a few weeks. And 
as for shareholders, my dear Caxton, I was once teased into 
being a shareholder in a canal that ran through my property, 
and ultimately ran off with £30,000 of it ! The other share- 
holders were all drowned in the canal, like Pharaoh and his 
host in the Red Sea. But your father is a great scholar, and 
must not be plagued with such matters. I owe him a great 
deal. He was very kind to me at Cambridge, and gave me 
the taste for reading, to which I owe the pleasantest hours of 
my life. So, when you and the lawyers have found out what 
the extent of the mischief is, you and I must see how we can 
best settle it. What the deuce ! my young friend — I have no 
'encumbrances/ as the servants, with great want of politeness, 
call wives and children. And I am not a miserable great landed 
millionaire, like that poor dear Castleton, who owes so many 
duties to society that he can’t spend a shilling, except in a 
grand way, and purely to benefit the public. So go, my boy, 
to Trevanion’s lawyer : he is mine, too. Clever fellow — sharp 
as a needle, Mr. Pike, in Great Ormond Street — name on a brass 
plate ; and when he has settled the amount, we young scape- 
graces will help each other, without a word to the old folks.” 

What good it does to a man, throughout life, to meet kindness 
and generosity like this in his youth ! 

I need not say that I was too faithful a representative of my 
father’s scholarly pride, and susceptible independence of spirit, 
to accept this proposal; and probably Sir Sedley, rich and 
liberal as he was, did not dream of the extent to which his pro- 
posal might involve him. But I expressed my gratitude, so as 
to please and move this last relic of the De Coverleys, and 
went from his house straight to Mr. Pike’s office, with a little 
note of introduction from Sir Sedley. I found Mr. Pike exactly 
the man I had anticipated from Trevanion’s character — short, 
quick, intelligent, in question and answer ; imposing and some- 
what domineering in manner — not overcrowded with business, 
but with enough for experience and respectability ; neither 
young nor old ; neither a pedantic machine of parchment, nor a 
jaunty offhand coxcomb of West End manners. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


269 


“ It is an ugly affair,” said he, " but one that requires manage- 
ment. Leave it all in my hands for three days. Don’t go near 
Mr. Tibbets, nor Mr. Peck ; and on Saturday next, at two 
o’clock, if you will call here, you shall know my opinion of the 
whole matter.” With that, Mr. Pike glanced at the clock, and 
1 took up my hat, and went. 

There is no place more delightful than a great capital, if you 
are comfortably settled in it — have arranged the methodical 
disposal of your time, and know how to take business and 
pleasure in due proportions. But a flying visit to a great capital, 
in an unsettled, unsatisfactory way — at an inn — an inn in the 
City, too — with a great worrying load of business on your mind, 
of which you are to hear no more of for three days ; and an 
aching, jealous, miserable sorrow at the heart, such as I had — 
leaving you no labour to pursue, and no pleasure that you have 
the heart to share in — oh, a great capital then is indeed forlorn, 
wearisome, and oppressive ! It is the Castle of Indolence, not 
as Thomson built it, but as Beckford drew in his Hall of Eblis 
— a wandering up and down, to and fro — a great awful space, 
with your hand pressed to your heart ; and — oh for a rush on 
some half- tame horse, through the measureless green wastes of 
Australia ! That is the place for a man who has no home in 
the Babel, and whose hand is ever pressing to his heart, with its 
dull, burning pain. 

Mr. Squills decoyed me the second evening into one of the 
small theatres ; and very heartily did Mr. Squills enjoy all he 
saw and all he heard. And while, with a convulsive effort of 
the jaws, I was trying to laugh too, suddenly in one of the 
actors, who was performing the worshipful part of a parish 
beadle, I recognised a face that I had seen before. Five minutes 
afterwards I had disappeared from the side of Squills, and was 
amidst that strange world — behind the scenes. 

My beadle was much too busy and important to allow me a 
good opportunity to accost him, till the piece was over. I then 
seized hold of him, as he was amicably sharing a pot of porter 
with a gentleman in black shorts and a laced waistcoat, who 
was to play the part of a broken-hearted father in the Domestic 
Drama in Three Acts, that would conclude the amusements of 
the evening. 

“ Excuse me,” said I apologetically ; “ but as the Swan per- 
tinently observes, — f Should auld acquaintance be forgot ? ’ ” 

“ The Swan, sir ! ” cried the beadle aghast — “ the Swan never 
demeaned himself by such d d broad Scotch as that ! ” 


270 


THE CAXTONS : 


“ The Tweed has its swans as well as the Avon, Mr. Peacock.” 

“ St — st — hush — hush — h — u — sh ! ” whispered the beadle in 
great alarm, and eyeing me, with savage observation, under his 
corked eyebrows. Then, taking me by the arm, he jerked me 
away. When he had got as far as the narrow limits of that little 
stage would allow, Mr. Peacock said — 

“ Sir, you have the advantage of me ; I don’t remember 
you. Ah ! you need not look ! — by gad, sir, I am not to be 
bullied, — it was all fair play. If you will play with gentlemen, 
sir, you must run the consequences.” 

I hastened to appease the worthy man. 

“ Indeed, Mr. Peacock, if you remember, I refused to play 
with you; and, so far from wishing to offend you, I now come 
on purpose to compliment you on your excellent acting, and to 
inquire if you have heard anything lately of your young friend 
Mr. Vivian.” 

f ‘ Vivian ? — never heard the name, sir. Vivian ! Pooh, you 
are trying to hoax me ; very good ! ” 

“ I assure you, Mr. Peac ” 

“St — st — How the deuce did you know that I was once 
called Peac — , that is, people called me Peac—. A friendly 
nickname, no more — drop it, sir, or you f touch me with noble 
anger ! ’ ” 

“ Well, well ; ‘ the rose by any name will smell as sweet,’ as 
the Swan, this time at least judiciously, observes. But Mr. 
Vivian, too, seems to have other names at his disposal. I mean 
a young, dark, handsome man — or rather boy — with whom I 
met you in company by the roadside, one morning.” 

“O — h,” said Mr. Peacock, looking much relieved, “I know 
whom you mean, though I don’t remember to have had the 
pleasure of seeing you before. No ; I have not heard any thing 
of the young man lately. I wish I did know something of him. 
He was f a gentleman in my own way.’ Sweet Will has hit him 
off to a hair ! — 

‘The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s eye, tongue, sword.’ 

Such a hand with a cue ! — you should have seen him seek the 
‘ bubble reputation at the cannon s mouth.’ I may say,” con- 
tinued Mr. Peacock emphatically, “ that he was a regular trump 
— trump ! ” he reiterated with a start, as if the word had stung 
him — “ trump ! he was a brick ! ” 

Then fixing his eyes on me, dropping his arms, interlacing his 
fingers in the manner recorded of Talma in the celebrated 


A FAMILY PICTURE 271 

“ Qu’en distu ! ” he resumed in a hollow voice, slow and 
distinct — 

“ When — saw — you — him, — young m — m — a — n — nnn ? ” 
Finding the tables thus turned on myself, and not willing to 
give Mr. Peac — any clue to poor Vivian (who thus appeared, to 
my great satisfaction, to have finally dropped an acquaintance 
more versatile than reputable), I contrived, by a few evasive 
sentences, to keep Mr. Peac — ’s curiosity at a distance, till he 
was summoned in haste to change his attire for the domestic 
drama. And so we parted. 


CHAPTER VI 

r HATE law details as cordially as my readers can, and therefore 
I shall content myself with stating that Mr. Pike’s manage- 
ment, at the end, not of three days, but of two weeks, was so 
admirable, that Uncle Jack was drawn out of prison, and my 
father extracted from all his liabilities, by a sum two-thirds less 
than was first startlingly submitted to our indignant horror — and 
that, too, in a manner that would have satisfied the conscience 
of the most punctilious formalist whose contribution to the 
national fund, for an omitted payment to the Income Tax, the 
Chancellor of the Exchequer ever had the honour to acknow- 
ledge. Still, the sum was very large in proportion to my poor 
father’s income : and what with Jack’s debts, the claims of the 
Anti-Publisher Society’s printer — including the very expensive 
plates that had been so lavishly bespoken, and in great part com- 
pleted, for the "History of Human Error” — and, above all, the 
liabilities incurred on The Capitalist — what with the plant , as Mr. 
Peck technically phrased a great upas-tree of a total, branching 
out into types, cases, printing presses, engines, & c., all now to 
be resold at a third of their value ; what with advertisements 
and bills, that had covered all the dead-walls by which rubbish 
might be shot, throughout the three kingdoms ; what with the 
dues of reporters, and salaries of writers, who had been engaged 
for a year at least to The Capitalist , and whose claims survived 
the wretch they had killed and buried : what, in short, with all 
that the combined ingenuity of Uncle Jack and Printer Peck 
could supply for the utter ruin of the Caxton family — even after 
all deductions, curtailments, and after all that one could extract 
in the way of just contribution from the least unsubstantial of 


272 


THE CAXTONS : 


those shadows called the shareholders — my father’s fortune was 
reduced to a sum of between seven and eight thousand pounds, 
which, being placed at mortgage at four per cent., yielded just 
£372, 10s. a year — enough for my father to live upon, but not 
enough to afford also his son Pisistratus the advantages of educa- 
tion at Trinity College, Cambridge. The blow fell rather upon 
me than my father, and my young shoulders bore it without 
much wincing. 

This settled to our universal satisfaction, I went to pay my 
farewell visit to Sir Sedley Beaudesert. He had made much of 
me during my stay in London. I had breakfasted and dined 
with him pretty often ; I had presented Squills to him, who 
no sooner set eyes upon that splendid conformation, than he 
described his character with the nicest accuracy, as the neces- 
sary consequence of such a development for the rosy pleasures of 
life. We had never once retouched on the subject of Fanny’s 
marriage, and both of us tacitly avoided even mentioning the 
Trevanions. But in this last visit, though he maintained the 
same reserve as to Fanny, he referred without scruple to her 
father. 

“ Well, my young Athenian,” said he, after congratulating me 
on the result of the negotiations, and endeavouring again in vain 
to bear at least some share in my father’s losses — “ well, I see I 
cannot press this farther; but at least I can press on you any 
little interest I may have, in obtaining some appointment for 
yourself in one of the public offices. Trevanion could of course 
be more useful, but I can understand that he is not the kind of 
man you would like to apply to.” 

“ Shall I own to you, my dear Sir Sedley, that I have no taste 
for official employment ? I am too fond of my liberty. Since I 
have been at my uncle’s old Tower, I account for half my char- 
acter by the Borderer’s blood that is in me. I doubt if I am 
meant for the life of cities ; and 1 have old floating notions in 
my head, that will serve to amuse me when I get home, and 
may settle into schemes. And now to change the subject, may 
I ask what kind of person has succeeded me as Mr. Trevanion’s 
secretary ? ” 

“Why, he has got a broad-shouldered, stooping fellow, in 
spectacles and cotton stockings, who has written upon ‘ Rent,’ 
I believe — an imaginative treatise in his case, I fear, for rent is 
a thing he could never have received, and not often been trusted 
to pay. However, he is one of your political economists, and 
wants Trevanion to sell his pictures, as f unproductive capital.' 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


27 3 


Less mild than Pope’s Narcissa, 'to make a wash/ he would 
certainly ' stew a child/ Besides this official secretary, Trevanion 
trusts, however, a good deal to a clever, good-looking young 
gentleman, who is a great favourite with him.” 

" What is his name ? ” 

“ His name ? — oh, Gower ; a natural son, I believe, of one of 
the Gower family.” 

Here two of Sir Sedley’s fellow fine gentlemen lounged in, 
and my visit ended. 


CHAPTER VII 

T SWEAR,” cried my uncle, "that it shall be so.” And with 
a big frown, and a truculent air, he seized the fatal 
instrument. 

"Indeed, brother, it must not,” said my father, laying one 
pale, scholar-like hand mildly on Captain Roland’s brown, 
bellicose, and bony fist ; and with the other, outstretched, pro- 
tecting the menaced, palpitating victim. 

Not a word had my uncle heard of our losses, until they had 
been adjusted, and the sum paid ; for we all knew that the old 
Tower would have been gone — sold to some neighbouring squire 
or jobbing attorney — at the first impetuous impulse of Uncle 
Roland’s affectionate generosity. Austin endangered ! Austin 
ruined ! — he would never have rested till he came, cash in hand, 
to his deliverance. Therefore, I say, not till all was settled did 
I write to the Captain, and tell him gaily what had chanced. 
And, however light I made of our misfortunes, the letter brought 
the Captain to the red brick house the same evening on which 
I myself reached it, and about an hour later. My uncle had 
not sold the Tower, but he came prepared to carry us off to it 
vi et armis. We must live with him, and on him — let or sell the 
brick house, and put out the remnant of my father’s income to 
nurse and accumulate. And it was on finding my father’s resist- 
ance stubborn, and that hitherto he had made no way, that my 
uncle, stepping back into the hall, in which he had left his 
carpet-bag, &c., returned with an old oak case, and, touching a 
spring roller, out flew the Caxton pedigree. 

Out it flew — covering all the table, and undulating, Nile-like, 
till it had spread over books, papers, my mother’s workbox, and 
the tea-service (for the table was large and compendious, em- 

s 


27 4 


THE CAXTONS : 


blematic of its owner’s mind) — and then, flowing on the carpet, 
dragged its slow length along, till it was stopped by the 
fender. 

“ Now,” said my uncle solemnly, “ there never have been but 
two causes of difference between you and me, Austin. One is 
over ; why should the other last ? Aha ! I know why you hang 
back ; you think that we may quarrel about it ! ” 

“ About what, Roland ? ” 

“ About it, I say — and I’ll be d — d if we do ! ” cried my uncle, 
reddening. “ And I have been thinking a great deal upon the 
matter, and I have no doubt you are right. So I brought the 
old parchment with me, and you shall see me fill up the blank, 
just as you would have it. Now, then, you will come and live 
with me, and we can never quarrel any more.” 

Thus saying. Uncle Roland looked round for pen and ink ; 
and, having found them — not without difficulty, for they had 
been submerged under the overflow of the pedigree — he was 
about to fill up the lacuna , or hiatus , which had given rise to 
such memorable controversy, with the name of “ William Caxton, 
printer in the Sanctuary,” when my father, slowly recovering 
his breath, and aware of his brother’s purpose, intervened. It 
would have done your heart good to hear them — so completely, 
in the inconsistency of human nature, had they changed sides 
upon the question — my father now all for Sir William de Caxton, 
the hero of Boswortli ; my uncle all for the immortal printer. 
And in this discussion they grew animated; their eyes sparkled, 
their voices rose — Roland’s voice deep and thunderous, Austin’s 
sharp and piercing. Mr. Squills stopped his ears. Thus it 
arrived at that point, when my uncle doggedly came to the end 
of all argumentation — “ I swear that it shall be so ; ” and my 
father, trying the last resource of pathos, looked pleadingly 
into Roland’s eyes, and said, with a tone soft as mercy, 
“ Indeed, brother, it must not.” Meanwhile the dry parch- 
ment crisped, creaked, and trembled in every pore of its 
yellow skin. 

“ But,” said I, coming in opportunely, like the Horatian 
deity, “ I don’t see that either of you gentlemen has a right 
so to dispose of my ancestry. It is quite clear that a man 
has no possession in posterity. Posterity may possess him ; 
but deuce a bit will he ever be the better for his great-great- 
grandchildren!’ 

Squills. — “ Hear, hear ! ” 

Pisistratus (warming ). — “ But a man’s ancestry is a positive 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


275 


property to liim. Flow much, not only of acres, but of his con- 
stitution, his temper, his conduct, character, and nature, he may 
inherit from some progenitor ten times removed ! Nay, without 
that progenitor would he ever have been born — would a Squills 
ever have introduced him into the world, or a nurse ever have 
carried him upo kolpo ? ” 

Squills. — “ Hear, hear ! ” 

Pisistratus (with dignified emotion). — “No man, therefore, 
has a right to rob another of a forefather, with a stroke of his 
pen, from any motives, howsoever amiable. In the present 
instance, you will say, perhaps, that the ancestor in question is 
apocryphal — it may be the printer, it may be the knight. 
Granted ; but here, where history is in fault, shall a mere senti- 
ment decide ? While both are doubtful, my imagination appro- 
priates both. At one time I can reverence industry and learning 
in the printer ; at another, valour and devotion in the knight. 
This kindly doubt gives me two great forefathers ; and, through 
them, two trains of idea that influence my conduct under different 
circumstances. I will not permit you. Captain Roland, to rob 
me of either forefather — either train of idea. Leave, then, this 
sacred void unfilled, unprofaned : and accept this compromise of 
chivalrous courtesy — while my father lives with the Captain, we 
will believe in the printer; when away from the Captain, we 
will stand firm to the knight.” 

“Good !** cried Uncle Roland, as I paused, a little out of 
breath. 

“ And,” said my mother softly, “ I do think, Austin, there is 
a way of settling the matter which will please all parties. It is 
quite sad to think that poor Roland, and dear little Blanche, 
should be all alone in the Tower ; and I am sure that we should 
be much happier all together.” 

“ There,” cried Roland triumphantly. “ If you are not the 
most obstinate, hard-hearted, unfeeling brute in the world — 
which I don’t take you to be — brother Austin, after that really 
beautiful speech of your wife’s, there is not a word to be said 
further.” 

“ But we have not yet heard Kitty to the end, Roland.” 

“I beg your pardon a thousand times, ma’am — sister,” said 
the Captain, bowing. 

“ Well, I was going to add,” said my mother, “ that we will go 
and live with you, Roland, and club our little fortunes together. 
Blanche and I will take care of the house, and we shall be just 
twice as rich together as we are separately.” 


276 


THE CAXTONS: 


“ Pretty sort of hospitality that ! ” grunted the Captain. “ I 
did not expect you to throw me over in that way. No, no ; you 
must lay by for the boy there — what’s to become of him ? ” 

“ But we shall all lay by for him,” said my mother simply ; 
“you as well as Austin. We shall have more to save, if we have 
more to spend.” 

“Ah, save ! — that is easily said : there would be a pleasure in 
saving, then,” said the Captain mournfully. 

“ And what’s to become of me ? ” cried Squills, very petulantly. 
“ Am I to be left here in my old age — not a rational soul to 
speak to, and no other place in the village where there’s a drop 
of decent punch to be had ! f A plague on both your houses ! ’ 
as the chap said at the theatre the other night.” 

“ There’s room for a doctor in our neighbourhood, Mr. Squills,’ 
said the Captain. “ The gentleman in your profession who does 
for us, wants, I know, to sell the business.” 

“ Humph,” said Squills — “ a horribly healthy neighbourhood, I 
suspect ! ” 

“ Why, it has that misfortune, Mr. Squills ; but with your 
help,” said my uncle slyly, “a great alteration for the better 
may be effected in that respect.” 

Mr. Squills was about to reply, when ring — a-ting — ring — 
ting ! there came such a brisk, impatient, make-one’s-self-at- 
home kind of tintinnabular alarum at the great gate, that we 
all started up and looked at each other in surprise. Who could 
it possibly be ? We were not kept long in suspense ; for in 
another moment, Uncle Jack’s voice, which was always very 
clear and distinct, pealed through the hall ; and we were still 
staring at each other when Mr. Tibbets, with a bran-new muffler 
round his neck, and a peculiarly comfortable great-coat — best 
double Saxony, equally new — dashed into the room, bringing 
with him a very considerable quantity of cold air, which he 
hastened to thaw, first in my father’s arms, next in my mother’s. 
He then made a rush at the Captain, who ensconced himself 
behind the dumb waiter with a “ Hem ! Mr. — sir — Jack — sir — 
hem, hem !” Failing there, Mr. Tibbets rubbed off the remain- 
ing frost upon his double Saxony against your humble servant ; 
patted Squills affectionately on the back, and then proceeded to 
occupy his favourite position before the fire. 

“ Took you by surprise, eh ? ” said Uncle Jack, unpeeling 
himself by the hearthrug. “ But no — not by surprise ; you 
must have known Jack’s heart : you at least, Austin Caxton, 
who know everything — you must have seen that it overflowed 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


277 


with the tenderest and most brotherly emotions ; that once 
delivered from that cursed Fleet (you have no idea what a 
place it is, sir), I could not rest, night or day, till I had flown 
here — here, to the dear family nest — poor wounded dove that 
I am ! ” added Uncle Jack pathetically, and taking out his 
pocket-handkerchief from the double Saxony, which he had 
now flung over my father’s arm-chair. 

Not a word replied to this eloquent address, with its touching 
peroration. My mother hung down her pretty head, and looked 
ashamed. My uncle retreated quite into the corner, and drew 
the dumb waiter after him, so as to establish a complete fortifi- 
cation. Mr. Squills seized the pen that Roland had thrown 
down, and began mending it furiously — that is, cutting it into 
slivers — thereby denoting, symbolically, how he would like to 
do with Uncle Jack, could he once get him safe and snug under 
his manipular operations. I bent over the pedigree, and my 
father rubbed his spectacles. 

The silence would have been appalling to another man : 
nothing appalled Uncle Jack. 

Uncle Jack turned to the fire, and warmed first one foot, 
then the other. This comfortable ceremony performed, he 
again faced the company— and resumed musingly, and as if 
answering some imaginary observations — 

"Yes, yes — you are right there — and a deuced unlucky 
speculation it proved too. But I was overruled by that fellow 
Peck. Says I to him — says I — ‘ Capitalist ! pshaw — no popular 
interest there — it don’t address the great public ! Very con- 
fined class the capitalists ; better throw ourselves boldly on the 
people. Yes,’ said I, ‘call it the ^rc&’-Capitalist.* By Jove! 
sir, we should have carried all before us ! but I was overruled. 
The Anti-Capitalist ! — what an idea ! Address the whole reading 
world there, sir : everybody hates the capitalist — everybody 
would have his neighbour’s money. The Anti-Capitalist / — sir, 
we should have gone off, in the manufacturing towns, like wild- 
fire. But what could I do ? ” 

"John Tibbets,” said my father solemnly, "Capitalist or Anti- 
Capitalist, thou hadst a right to follow thine own bent in either 
— but always provided it had been with thine own money. 
Thou seest not the thing, John Tibbets, in the right point of 
view ; and a little repentance in the face of those thou hast 
wronged, would not have misbecome thy father’s son, and thy 
sister’s brother ! ” 

Never had so severe a rebuke issued from the mild lips of 


278 


THE CAXTONS : 


Austin Caxton; and I raised my eyes with a compassionate 
thrill, expecting to see John Tibbets gradually sink and dis- 
appear through the carpet. 

“ Repentance ! ** cried Uncle Jack, bounding up, as if he had 
been shot. “And do you think I have a heart of stone, of 
pummy-stone ! — do you think I don’t repent ? I have done 
nothing but repent — I shall repent to my dying day.” 

“Then there is no more to be said, Jack,” cried my father, 
softening, and holding out his hand. 

“Yes!” cried Mr. Tibbets, seizing the hand, and pressing 
it to the heart he had thus defended from the suspicion of 
being pummy — “ yes, — that I should have trusted that dunder- 
headed, rascally curmudgeon Peck : that I should have let 
him call it The Capitalist , despite all my convictions, when 
the Anti ” 

“ Pshaw ! ” interrupted my father, drawing away his hand. 

“John,” said my mother gravely, and with tears in her voice, 
“you forget who delivered you from prison, — you forget whom 
you have nearly consigned to prison yourself — you forg ” 

“ Hush, hush ! ” said my father, “ this will never do ; and it 
is you who forget, my dear, the obligations I owe to Jack. He 
has reduced my fortune one-half, it is true ; but I verily think 
he has made the three hearts, in which lie my real treasures, 
twice as large as they were before. Pisistratus, my boy, ring 
the bell.” 

“ My dear Kitty,” cried Jack, whimpering, and stealing up to 
my mother, “ don’t be so hard on me ; I thought to make all 
your fortunes — I did indeed.” 

Here the servant entered. 

“ See that Mr. Tibbets’s things are taken up to his room, and 
that there is a good fire,” said my father. 

“And,” continued Jack loftily, “ I will make all your fortunes 
yet. I have it here ! ” and he struck his head. 

“Stay a moment,” said my father to the servant, who had got 
back to the door. “ Stay a moment,” said my father, looking 
extremely frightened : “ perhaps Mr. Tibbets may prefer the 
inn ! ” 

“ Austin,” said Uncle Jack, with emotion, “ if I were a dog, 
with no home but a dog-kennel, and you came to me for shelter, 
I would turn out — to give you the best of the straw ! ” 

My father was thoroughly melted this time. 

“ Primmins will be sure to see everything is made comfortable 
for Mr. Tibbets,” said he, waving his hand to the servant. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 279 

"Something nice for supper, Kitty, my dear — and the largest 
punch-bowl. You like punch, Jack?” 

“ Punch, Austin ! ” said Uncle Jack, putting his handkerchief 
to his eyes. 

The Captain pushed aside the dumb waiter, strode across the 
room, and shook hands with Uncle Jack ; my mother buried her 
face in her apron, and fairly ran off ; and Squills said in my ear, 
" It all comes of the biliary secretions. Nobody could account 
for this, who did not know the peculiarly fine organisation of 
your father’s — liver ! ” 


PART XII 


CHAPTER I 

rPHE Hegira is completed — we have all taken roost in the old 
Tower. My father’s books have arrived by the waggon, and 
have settled themselves quietly in their new abode — filling up 
the apartment dedicated to their owner, including the bed- 
chamber and two lobbies. The duck also has arrived, under 
wing of Mrs. Primmins, and has reconciled herself to the old 
stewpond, by the side of which my father has found a walk that 
compensates for the peach-wall — especially as he has made 
acquaintance with sundry respectable carps, who permit him to 
feed them after he has fed the duck — a privilege of which 
(since, if any one else approaches, the carps are off in an instant) 
my father is naturally vain. All privileges are valuable in pro- 
portion to the exclusiveness of their enjoyment. 

Now, from the moment the first carp had eaten the bread my 
father threw to it, Mr. Caxton had mentally resolved that a race 
so confiding should never be sacrificed to Ceres and Primmins. 
But all the fishes on my uncle’s property were under the special 
care of that Proteus Bolt — and Bolt was not a man likely to 
suffer the carps to earn their bread without contributing their 
full share to the wants of the community. But, like master, 
like man ! Bolt was an aristocrat fit to be hung a la lanteme. 
He out-Rolanded Roland in the respect he entertained for 
sounding names and old families; and by that bait my father 
caught him with such skill, that you might see that, if Austin 
Caxton had been an angler of fishes, he could have filled his 
basket full any day, shine or rain. 

“ You observe. Bolt,” said my father, beginning artfully, 
“that those fishes, dull as you may think them, are crea- 
tures capable of a syllogism ; and if they saw that, in pro- 
portion to their civility to me, they were depopulated by 
you, they would put two and two together, and renounce my 
acquaintance.” 

280 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


281 


“Is that what you call being silly Jems, sir?” said Bolt; 
“ faith, there is many a good Christian not half so wise ! ” 

“Man,” answered my father thoughtfully, “is an animal less 
syllogistical, or more silly- Jemical, than many creatures popularly 
esteemed his inferiors. Yes, let but one of those Cyprinidae, 
with his fine sense of logic, see that, if his fellow-fishes eat 
bread, they are suddenly jerked out of their element, and 
vanish for ever ; and though you broke a quartern loaf into 
crumbs, he would snap his tail at you with enlightened con- 
tempt. If,” said my father, soliloquising, “ I had been as syllo- 
gistic as those scaly logicians, I should never have swallowed that 
hook, >yhich — hum ! there — least said soonest mended. But, 
Mr. Bolt, to return to the Cyprinidae.” 

“ What's the hard name you call them ’ere carp, your honour? ” 
asked Bolt. 

“Cyprinidae, a family of the section Malacoptergii Abdomi- 
nales,” replied Mr. Caxton ; “ their teeth are generally confined 
to the Pharyngeans, and their branchiostegous rays are but few 
— marks of distinction from fishes vulgar and voracious.” 

“ Sir,” said Bolt, glancing to the stewpond, “ if I had known 
they had been a family of such importance, I am sure I should 
have treated them with more respect.” 

“ They are a very old family. Bolt, and have been settled in 
England since the fourteenth century. A younger branch of 
the family has established itself in a pond in the garden of 
Peterhoff (the celebrated palace of Peter the Great, Bolt, — an 
emperor highly respected by my brother, for he killed a great 
many people very gloriously in battle, besides those whom he 
sabred for his own private amusement). And there is an officer 
or servant of the Imperial household, whose task it is to summon 
those Russian Cyprinidae to dinner, by ringing a bell, shortly 
after which, you may see the emperor and empress, with all 
their waiting ladies and gentlemen, coming down in their 
carriages to see the Cyprinidae eat in state. So you perceive. 
Bolt, that it would be a republican, Jacobinical proceeding to 
stew members of a family so intimately associated with royalty.” 

“ Dear me, sir,” said Bolt, “ I am very glad you told me. I 
ought to have known they were genteel fish, they are so mighty 
shy — as all your real quality are.” 

My father smiled, and rubbed his hands gently ; he had 
carried his point, and henceforth the Cyprinidae of the section 
Malacoptergii Abdominales were as sacred in Bolt’s eyes as cats 
and ichneumons were in those of a priest in Thebes. 


282 


THE CAXTONS : 


My poor father ! with what true and unostentatious philosophy 
thou didst accommodate thyself to the greatest change thy quiet, 
harmless life had known, since it had passed out of the brief 
burning cycle of the passions. Lost was the home endeared to 
thee by so many noiseless victories of the mind — so many mute 
histories of the heart — for only the scholar knoweth how deep a 
charm lies in monotony, in the old associations, the old ways, 
and habitual clockwork of peaceful time. Yet, the home may 
be replaced— thy heart built its home round itself everywhere — 
and the old Tower might supply the loss of the brick house, 
and the walk by the stewpond become as dear as the haunts 
by the sunny peach-wall. But what shall replace to thee the 
bright dream of thine innocent ambition, — that angel-wing 
which had glittered across thy manhood, in the hour between 
its noon and its setting? What replace to thee the Magnum 
Opus — the Great Book ! — fair and broad-spreading tree — lone 
amidst the sameness of the landscape — now plucked up by the 
roots ! The oxygen was subtracted from the air of thy life. 
For be it known to you, oh my compassionate readers, that with 
the death of the Anti- Publisher Society the blood streams of 
the Great Book stood still — its pulse was arrested — its full heart 
beat no more. Three thousand copies of the first seven sheets 
in quarto, with sundry unfinished plates, anatomical, architec- 
tural, and graphic, depicting various developments of the human 
skull (that temple of Human Error), from the Hottentot to the 
Greek ; sketches of ancient buildings, Cyclopean and Pelasgic ; 
Pyramids, and Pur-tors, all signs of races whose handwriting 
was on their walls ; landscapes to display the influence of Nature 
upon the customs, creeds, and philosophy of men — here showing 
how the broad Chaldean wastes led to the contemplation of the 
stars ; and illustrations of the Zodiac, in elucidation of the 
mysteries of symbol-worship ; fantastic vagaries of earth fresh 
from the Deluge, tending to impress on early superstition the 
awful sense of the rude powers of Nature ; views of the rocky 
defiles of Laconia ; Sparta, neighboured by the “silent Amyclae,” 
explaining, as it were, geographically, the iron customs of the 
warrior colony (arch Tories, amidst the shift and roar of Hellenic 
democracies), contrasted by the seas, and coasts, and creeks of 
Athens and Ionia, tempting to adventure, commerce, and change. 
Yea, my father, in his suggestions to the artist of those few 
imperfect plates, had thrown as much light on the infancy of 
earth and its tribes as by the “ shining words ” that flowed from 
his calm, starry knowledge ! Plates and copies, all rested now 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


28 3 


in peace and dust—" housed with darkness and with death/’ 
on the sepulchral shelves of the lobby to which they were con- 
signed — rays intercepted — worlds incompleted. The Prome- 
theus was bound, and the fire he had stolen from heaven lay 
imbedded in the flints of his rock. For so costly was the mould 
in which Uncle Jack and the Anti-Publisher Society had con- 
trived to cast this Exposition of Human Error, that every book- 
seller shyed at its very sight, as an owl blinks at daylight, or 
human error at truth. In vain Squills and I, before we left 
London, had carried a gigantic specimen of the Magnum Opus 
into the back-parlours of firms the most opulent and adventurous. 
Publisher after publisher started, as if we had held a blunderbuss 
to his ear. All Paternoster Row uttered a "Lord deliver us!” 
Human Error found no man so egregiously its victim as to com- 
plete those two quartos, with the prospect of two others, at his 
own expense. Now I had earnestly hoped that my father, for 
the sake of mankind, would be persuaded to risk some portion 
— and that, I own, not a small one — of his remaining capital on 
the conclusion of an undertaking so elaborately begun. But 
there my father was obdurate. No big words about mankind, 
and the advantage to unborn generations, could stir him an 
inch. "Stuff!” said Mr. Caxton peevishly. "A man’s duties 
to mankind and posterity begin with his own son ; and having 
wasted half your patrimony, I will not take another huge slice 
out of the poor remainder to gratify my vanity, for that is the 
plain truth of it. Man must atone for sin by expiation. By 
the book I have sinned, and the book must expiate it. Pile 
the sheets up in the lobby, so that at least one man may be 
wiser and humbler by the sight of human error, every time he 
walks by so stupendous a monument of it.” 

Verily, I know not how my hither could bear to look at those 
dumb fragments of himself— strata of the Caxtonian conforma- 
tion lying layer upon layer, as if packed up and disposed for 
the inquisitive genius of some moral Murchison or Mantell. 
But for my part, I never glanced at their repose in the dark 
lobby, without thinking, "Courage, Pisistratus ! courage ! there’s 
something worth living for ; work hard, grow rich, and the Great 
Book shall come out at last.” 

Meanwhile, I wandered over the country, and made acquaint- 
ance with the farmers, and with Trevanion’s steward — an able 
man, and a great agriculturist — and I learned from them a 
better notion of the nature of my uncle’s domains. Those 
domains covered an immense acreage, which, save a small farm. 


284 


THE CAXTONS : 


was of no value at present. But land of the same sort had been 
lately redeemed by a simple kind of draining, now well known 
in Cumberland ; and, with capital, Roland’s barren moors might 
become a noble property. But capital, where was that to come 
from ? Nature gives us all except the means to turn her into 
marketable account. As old Plautus saith so wittily, “ Day, 
night, water, sun, and moon, are to be had gratis ; for every- 
thing else — down with your dust ! ” 


CHAPTER II 

"^OTHING has been heard of Uncle Jack. Before we left 
^ the brick house, the Captain gave him an invitation to the 
Tower — more, I suspect, out of compliment to my mother than 
from the unbidden impulse of his own inclinations. But Mr. 
Tibbets politely declined it. During his stay at the brick 
house, he had received and written a vast number of letters — 
some of those he received, indeed, were left at the village post- 
office, under the alphabetical addresses of A B or X Y ; for no 
misfortune ever paralysed the energies of Uncle Jack. In the 
winter of adversity he 'Vanished, it is true ; but even in vanish- 
ing, he vegetated still. He resembled those algce , termed the 
Prolococcus nivales , which give a rose-colour to the Polar snows 
that conceal them, and flourish unsuspected amidst the general 
dissolution of Nature. Uncle Jack, then, was as lively and 
sanguine as ever — though he began to let fall vague hints of 
intentions to abandon the general cause of his fellow-creatures, 
and to set up business henceforth purely on his own account ; 
wherewith my father — to the great shock of my belief in his 
philanthropy — expressed himself much pleased. And I strongly 
suspect that, when Uncle Jack wrapped himself up in his new 
double Saxony, and went off at last, he carried with him some- 
thing more than my father’s good wishes in aid of his conversion 
to egotistical philosophy. 

“ That man will do yet,” said my father, as the last glimpse 
was caught of Uncle Jack standing up on the stage-coach box, 
beside the driver, partly to wave his hand to us as we stood at 
the gate, and partly to array himself more commodiously in a 
box-coat with six capes, which the coachman had lent him. 

“ Do you think so, sir ? ” said I doubtfully. “ May I ask 
why ? ” 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


285 


Mr. Caxton. — “On the cat principle — that he tumbles so 
lightly. You may throw him down from St. Paul’s, and the 
next time you see him he will be scrambling a-top of the 
Monument.” 

Pisistratus. — “ But a cat the most viparious is limited to nine 
lives ; and Uncle Jack must be now far gone in his eighth.” 

Mr. Caxton (not heeding that answer, for he has got his 
hand in his waistcoat). — “The earth, according to Apuleius, 
in his ‘ Treatise on the Philosophy of Plato,’ was produced from 
right-angled triangles ; but fire and air from the scalene triangle 
— the angles of which, I need not say, are very different from 
those of a right-angled triangle. Now I think there are people 
in the world of whom one can only judge rightly according to 
those mathematical principles applied to their original construc- 
tion : for, if air or fire predominates in our natures, we are 
scalene triangles; — if earth, right-angled. Now, as air is so 
notably manifested in Jack’s conformation, he is, nolens volens , 
produced in conformity with his preponderating element. He 
is a scalene triangle, and must be judged, accordingly, upon 
irregular, lop-sided principles; whereas you and I, common- 
place mortals, are produced, like the earth, which is our 
preponderating element, with our triangles all right-angled, 
comfortable and complete ; for which blessing let us thank 
Providence, and be charitable to those who are necessarily 
windy and gaseous, from that unlucky scalene triangle upon 
which they have had the misfortune to be constructed, and 
which, you perceive, is quite at variance with the mathematical 
constitution of the earth ! ” 

Pisistratus. — “ Sir, I am very happy to hear so simple, easy, 
and intelligible an explanation of Uncle Jack’s peculiarities ; and 
I only hope that, for the future, the sides of his scalene triangle 
may never be produced to our rectangular conformations.” 

Mr. Caxton (descending from his stilts, with an air as mildly 
reproachful as if I had been cavilling at the virtues of Socrates). 
— “You don’t do your uncle justice, Pisistratus; he is a very 
clever man ; and I am sure that, in spite of his scalene mis- 
fortune, he would be an honest one — that is (added Mr. Caxton, 
correcting himself), not romantically or heroically honest — but 
honest as men go — if he could but keep his head long enough 
above water ; but, you see, when the best man in the world is 
engaged in the process of sinking, he catches hold of whatever 
comes in his way, and drowns the very friend who is swimming 
to save him.” 


286 


THE CAXTONS : 


Pisistratus. — "Perfectly true, sir; but Uncle Jack makes it 
his business to be always sinking ! ” 

Mr. Caxton (with naivete ). — "And how could it be other- 
wise, when he has been carrying all his fellow-creatures in his 
breeches’ pockets ! Now he has got rid of that dead weight, 
1 should not be surprised if he swam like a cork.” 

Pisistratus (who, since the Capitalist, has become a strong 
Anti-Jackian). — " But if, sir, you really think Uncle Jack’s 
love for his fellow-creatures is genuine, that is surely not the 
worst part of him.” 

Mr. Caxton.— "O literal ratiocinator, and dull to the true 
logic of Attic irony ! can’t you comprehend that an affection 
may be genuine as felt by the man, yet its nature be spurious 
in relation to others ? A man may genuinely believe he loves 
his fellow-creatures, when he roasts them like Torquemada, or 
guillotines them like St. Just ! Happily Jack’s scalene triangle, 
being more produced from air than from fire, does not give to 
his philanthropy the inflammatory character which distinguishes 
the benevolence of inquisitors and revolutionists. The philan- 
thropy, therefore, takes a more flatulent and innocent form, 
and expends its strength in mounting paper balloons, out of 
which Jack pitches himself, with all the fellow- creatures he 
can coax into sailing with him. No doubt Uncle Jack’s philan- 
thropy is sincere, when he cuts the string and soars up out 
of sight ; but the sincerity will not much mend their bruises 
when himself and fellow-creatures come tumbling down neck 
and heels. It must be a very wide heart that can take in all 
mankind — and of a very strong fibre to bear so much stretching. 
Such hearts there are, Heaven be thanked ! — and all praise to 
them ! Jack’s is not of that quality. He is a scalene triangle. 
He is not a circle ! And yet, if he would but let it rest, it is 
a good heart — a very good heart (continued my father, warming 
into a tenderness quite infantine, all things considered). Poor 
Jack! that was prettily said of him — 'That if he Avere a dog, 
and he had no home but a dog-kennel, he would turn out to 
give me the best of the straw ! ’ Poor brother Jack ! ” 

So the discussion was dropped ; and, in the meanwhile. Uncle 
Jack, like the short-faced gentleman in the Spectator , "dis- 
tinguished himself by a profound silence.” 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


287 


CHAPTER III 


JJLANCHE has contrived to associate herself, if not with my 
more active diversions — in running over the country, and 
making friends with the farmers — still in all my more leisurely 
and domestic pursuits. There is about her a silent charm that 
it is very hard to define, but it seems to arise from a kind of 
innate sympathy with the moods and humours of those she 
loves. If one is gay, there is a cheerful ring in her silver laugh 
that seems gladness itself ; if one is sad, and creeps away into 
a corner to bury one’s head in one’s hand, and muse — by-and- 
by, and just at the right moment, when one has mused one’s 
fill, and the heart wants something to refresh and restore it, 
one feels two innocent arms round one’s neck, — looks up— and 
lo ! Blanche’s soft eyes, full of wistful compassionate kindness ; 
though she has the tact not to question — it is enough for her 
to sorrow with your sorrow — she cares not to know more. A 
strange child ! — fearless, and yet seemingly fond of things that 
inspire children with fear ; fond of tales of fay, sprite, and 
ghost, which Mrs. Primmins draws fresh and new from her 
memory, as a conjurer draws pancakes hot and hot from a hat. 
And yet so sure is Blanche of her own innocence, that they 
never trouble her dreams in her lone little room, full of cali- 
ginous corners and nooks, with the winds moaning round the 
desolate ruins, and the casements rattling hoarse in the dungeon- 
like wall. She would have no dread to walk through the ghostly 
keep in the dark, or cross the churchyard, what time. 


“By the moon’s doubtful and malignant light,” 

the grave-stones look so spectral, and the shade from the yew 
trees lies so still on the sward. When the brows of Roland are 
gloomiest, and the compression of his lips makes sorrow look 
sternest, be sure that Blanche is couched at his feet, waiting 
the moment when, with some heavy sigh, the muscles relax, 
and she is sure of the smile if she climbs to his knee. It is 
pretty to chance on her gliding up broken turret-stairs, or 
standing hushed in the recess of shattered casements, and you 
wonder what thoughts of vague awe and solemn pleasure can be 
at work under that still little brow. 

She has a quick comprehension of all that is taught to her; 
she already tasks to the full my mother’s educational arts. My 


288 


THE CAXTONS : 


father has had to rummage his library for books, to feed (or 
extinguish) her desire for “ farther information ” ; and has pro- 
mised lessons in French and Italian — at some golden time in 
the shadowy “ by-and-by ” — which are received so gratefully 
that one might think Blanche mistook Telemaque and Novelle 
Morali for baby-houses and dolls. Heaven send her through 
French and Italian with better success than attended Mr. 
Caxton’s lessons in Greek to Pisistratus ! She has an ear for 
music, which my mother, who is no bad judge, declares to be 
exquisite. Luckily there is an old Italian settled in a town ten 
miles off, who is said to be an excellent music-master, and who 
comes the round of the neighbouring squirearchy twice a week. 
I have taught her to draw — an accomplishment in which I am 
not without skill — and she has already taken a sketch from 
nature, which, barring the perspective, is not so amiss ; indeed, 
she has caught the notion of “idealising” (which promises 
future originality) from her own natural instincts, and given to 
the old witch-elm, that hangs over the stream, just the bow 
that it wanted to dip into the water, and soften off the hard 
lines. My only fear is, that Blanche should become too dreamy 
and thoughtful. Poor child, she has no one to play with ! So 
I look out, and get her a dog — frisky and young, who abhors 
sedentary occupations — a spaniel, small and coal-black, with 
ears sweeping the ground. I baptize him “Juba,” in honour 
of Addison’s Cato, and in consideration of his sable curls and 
Mauritanian complexion. Blanche does not seem so eerie and 
elf-like while gliding through the ruins, when Juba barks by 
her side, and scares the birds from the ivy. 

One day I had been pacing to and fro the hall, which was 
deserted ; and the sight of the armour and portraits — dumb 
evidences of the active and adventurous lives of the old inhabi- 
tants, which seemed to reprove my own inactive obscurity — had 
set me off on one of those Pegasean hobbies on which youth 
mounts to the skies — delivering maidens on rocks, and killing 
Gorgons and monsters — when Juba bounded in, and Blanche 
came after him, her straw hat in her hand. 

Blanche. — “ I thought you were here, Sisty : may I stay ? ” 

Pisistratus. — “ Why, my dear child, the day is so fine, that 
instead of losing it indoors, you ought to be running in the 
fields with Juba.” 

Juba. — “ Bow-wow.” 

Blanche. — “ Will you come too ? If Sisty stays in, Blanche 
does not care for the butterflies ! ” 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


289 


Pisistratus, seeing that the thread of his day-dreams is broken, 
consents with an air of resignation. Just as they gain the door, 
Blanche pauses, and looks as if there were something on her 
mind. 

Pisistratus. — “What now, Blanche? Why are you making 
knots in that ribbon, and writing invisible characters on the floor 
with the point of that busy little foot ? ” 

Blanche (mysteriously). — “ I have found a new room, Sisty. 
Do you think we may look into it ? ” 

Pisistratus. — “ Certainly ; unless any Bluebeard of your ac- 
quaintance told you not. Where is it ? ” 

Blanche. — “ Upstairs — to the left.” 

Pisistratus. — “That little old door, going down two stone 
steps, which is always kept locked ? ” 

Blanche. — “ Yes ! it is not locked to-day. The door was ajar, 
and I peeped in ; but I would not do more till I came and asked 
you if you thought it would not be wrong.” 

Pisistratus. — “Very good in you, my discreet little cousin. I 
have no doubt it is a ghost-trap ; however, with Juba’s protec- 
tion, I think we might venture together.” 

Pisistratus, Blanche, and Juba ascend the stairs, and turn off 
down a dark passage to the left, away from the rooms in use. 
We reach the arch-pointed door of oak planks nailed roughly 
together — we push it open, and perceive that a small stair winds 
down from the room : it is just over Roland’s chamber. 

The room has a damp smell, and has probably been left open 
to be aired, for the wind comes through the unbarred casement, 
and a billet burns on the hearth. The place has that attractive, 
fascinating air which belongs to a lumber-room, than which I 
know nothing that so captivates the interest and fancy of young 
people. What treasures, to them, often lie hid in those quaint 
odds and ends which the elder generations have discarded as 
rubbish ! All children are by nature antiquarians and relic- 
hunters. Still there is an order and precision with which the 
articles in that room are stowed away that belies the true notion 
of lumber — none of the mildew and dust which give such mourn- 
ful interest to things abandoned to decay. 

In one corner are piled up cases, and military-looking trunks 
of outlandish aspect, with R. I). C. in brass nails on their sides. 
From these we turn with involuntary respect, and call off Juba, 
who has wedged himself behind in pursuit of some imaginary 
mouse. But in the other corner is what seems to me a child’s 
cradle — not an English one evidently : it is of wood, seemingly 

t 


290 


THE CAXTONS : 


Spanish rosewood, with a railwork at the back, of twisted 
columns ; and I should scarcely have known it to be a cradle but 
for the fairy-like quilt and the tiny pillows, which proclaimed 
its uses. 

On the wall above the cradle were arranged sundry little 
articles, that had, perhaps, once made the joy of a child’s heart 
—broken toys with the paint rubbed off, a tin sword and 
trumpet, and a few tattered books, mostly in Spanish — by their 
shape and look, doubtless children’s books. Near these stood, 
on the floor, a picture with its face to the wall. Juba had 
chased the mouse that his fancy still insisted on creating, behind 
this picture, and as he abruptly drew back, the picture fell into 
the hands I stretched forth to receive it. I turned the face to 
the light, and was surprised to see merely an old family portrait ; 
it was that of a gentleman in the flowered vest and stiff ruff 
which referred the date of his existence to the reign of Elizabeth 
— a man with a bold and noble countenance. On the corner 
was placed a faded coat of arms, beneath which was inscribed, 
“ Herbert de Caxton, Eq : Aur : ^Etat : 35.” 

On the back of the canvas I observed, as I now replaced the 
picture against the wall, a label in Roland’s handwriting, though 
in a younger and more running hand than he now wrote. The 
words were these: — “The best and bravest of our line. He 
charged by Sydney’s side on the field of Zutphen ; he fought in 
Drake’s ship against the armament of Spain. If ever I have 
a ” The rest of the label seemed to have been torn off. 

I turned away, and felt a remorseful shame that I had so far 
gratified my curiosity, — if by so harsh a name the powerful 
interest that had absorbed me must be called. I looked round 
for Blanche ; she had retreated from my side to the door, and, 
with her hands before her eyes, was weeping. As I stole 
towards her, my glance fell on a book that lay on a chair near 
the casement, and beside those relics of an infancy once pure 
and serene. By the old-fashioned silver clasps, I recognised 
Roland’s Bible. I felt as if I had been almost guilty of pro- 
fanation in my thoughtless intrusion. 1 drew away Blanche, 
and we descended the stairs noiselessly ; and not till we were 
on our favourite spot, amidst a heap of ruins on the feudal 
justice-hill, did I seek to kiss away her tears and ask the cause. 

“ My poor brother ! ” sobbed Blanche, “ they must have been 
his — and we shall never, never see him again ! — and poor papa’s 
Bible, which he reads when he is very, very sad ! I did not 
weep enough when my brother died. I know better what 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


291 


death is now ! Poor papa ! poor papa ! Don’t die, too, 
Sisty ! ” 

There was no running after butterflies that morning ; and it 
was long before I could soothe Blanche. Indeed, she bore the 
traces of dejection in her soft looks for many, many days ; and 
she often asked me, sighingly, “ Don’t you think it was very 
wrong in me to take you there?” Poor little Blanche, true 
daughter of Eve, she would not let me bear my due share of the 
blame ; she would have it all in Adam’s primitive way of justice 
— “ The woman tempted me, and I did eat.” And since then 
Blanche has seemed more fond than ever of Roland, and com- 
paratively deserts me to nestle close to him, and closer, till he 
looks up and says, “ My child, you are pale ; go and run after 
the butterflies ; ” and she says now to him, not to me, “ Come 
too ! ” drawing him out into the sunshine with a hand that will 
not loose its hold. 

Of all Roland’s line, this Herbert de Caxton was “the best 
and bravest ! ” yet he had never named that ancestor to me — 
never put any forefather in comparison with the dubious and 
mythical Sir William. I now remembered once, that, in going 
over the pedigree, I had been struck by the name of Herbert — 
the only Herbert in the scroll — and had asked, “What of him, 
uncle ? ” and Roland had muttered something inaudible, and 
turned away. And I remembered, also, that in Roland’s room 
there was the mark in the wall where a picture of that size had 
once hung. The picture had been removed thence before we 
first came, but must have hung there for years to have left that 
mark on the wall — perhaps suspended by Bolt, during Roland’s 

long Continental absence. “ If ever I have a ” What were 

the missing words ? Alas ! did they not relate to the son — 
missed for ever, evidently not forgotten still ? 


CHAPTER IV 

"jl/TY uncle sat on one side the fire-place, my mother on the 
other; and I, at a small table between them, prepared to 
note down the results of their conference ; for they had met in 
high council, to assess their joint fortunes — determine what 
should be brought into the common stock, and set apart for the 
Civil List, and what should be laid aside as a Sinking Fund. 
Now my mother, true woman as she was, had a womanly love of 


292 


THE CAXTONS: 


show in her own quiet way — of making “a genteel figure” in 
the eyes of the neighbourhood — of seeing that sixpence not 
only went as far as sixpence ought to go, but that, in the going, 
it should emit a mild but imposing splendour, — not, indeed, a 
gaudy flash — a startling Borealian coruscation, which is scarcely 
within the modest and placid idiosyncrasies of sixpence — but a 
gleam of gentle and benign light, just to show where a sixpence 
had been, and allow you time to say “ Behold ! ” before 

“ The jaws of darkness did devour it up.” 

Thus, as I once before took occasion to apprise the reader, we 
had always held a very respectable position in the neighbour- 
hood round our square brick house ; been as sociable as my 
father’s habits would permit ; given our little tea-parties, and 
our occasional dinners, and, without attempting to vie with our 
richer associates, there had always been so exquisite a neatness, 
so notable a housekeeping, so thoughtful a disposition, in short, 
of all the properties indigenous to a well-spent sixpence, in my 
mother’s management, that there was not an old maid within 
seven miles of us who did not pronounce our tea-parties to be 
perfect ; and the great Mrs. Rollick, who gave forty guineas a 
year to a professed cook and housekeeper, used regularly, 
whenever we dined at Rollick Hall, to call across the table 
to my mother (who therewith blushed up to her ears), to 
apologise for the strawberry jelly. It is true, that when, on 
returning home, my mother adverted to that flattering and 
delicate compliment, in a tone that revealed the self-conceit of 
the human heart, my father — whether to sober his Kitty’s 
vanity into a proper and Christian mortification of spirit, or from 
that strange shrewdness which belonged to him — would remark 
that Mrs. Rollick was of a querulous nature ; that the compli- 
ment was meant not to please my mother, but to spite the pro- 
fessed cook and housekeeper, to whom the butler would be sure 
to repeat the invidious apology. 

In settling at the Tower, and assuming the head of its estab- 
lishment, my mother was naturally anxious that, poor battered 
invalid though the Tower was, it should still put its best leg 
foremost. Sundry cards, despite the thinness of the neighbour- 
hood, had been left at the door ; various invitations, which my 
uncle had hitherto declined, had greeted his occupation of the 
ancestral ruin, and had become more numerous since the news 
of our arrival had gone abroad ; so that my mother saw before 
her a very suitable field for her hospitable accomplishments — a 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


293 


reasonable ground for her ambition that the Tower should hold up 
its head, as became a Tower that held the head of the family. 

But not to wrong thee, O dear mother ! as thou sittest there, 
opposite the grim Captain, so fair and so neat, — with thine 
apron as white, and thy hair as trim and as sheen, and thy 
morning cap, with its ribbons of blue, as coquettishly arranged 
as if thou hadst a fear that the least negligence on thy part 
might lose thee the heart of thine Austin — not to wrong thee 
by setting down to frivolous motives alone thy feminine visions 
of the social amenities of life, I know that thine heart, in its 
provident tenderness, was quite as much interested as ever thy 
vanities could be, in the hospitable thoughts on which thou wert 
intent. For, first and foremost, it was the wish of thy soul that 
thine Austin might, as little as possible, be reminded of the 
change in his fortunes, — might miss as little as possible those 
interruptions to his abstracted scholarly moods, at which, it is 
true, he used to fret and to pshaw and to cry Papae ! but which 
nevertheless always did him good, and freshened up the stream 
of his thoughts. And, next, it was the conviction of thine 
understanding that a little society, and boon companionship, 
and the proud pleasure of showing his ruins, and presiding at 
the hall of his forefathers, would take Roland out of those 
gloomy reveries into which he still fell at times. And, thirdly, 
for us young people ought not Blanche to find companions in 
children of her own sex and age ? Already in those large black 
eyes there was something melancholy and brooding, as there is 
in the eyes of all children who live only with their elders ; and 
for Pisistratus, with his altered prospects, and the one great 
gnawing memory at his heart — which he tried to conceal from 
himself, but which a mother (and a mother who had loved) saw 
at a glance — what could be better than such union and inter- 
change with the world around us, small though that world 
might be, as woman, sweet binder and blender of all social 
links, might artfully effect ? — So that thou didst not go, like 
the awful Florentine, 

“ Sopra lor vanitfc, che par persona,” 

“ over thin shadows that mocked the substance of real forms,” 
but rather it was the real forms that appeared as shadows or 
vanita. 

What a digression ! — can I never tell my story in a plain 
straightforward way ? Certainly 1 was born under Cancer, and 
all my movements are circumlocutory, sideways, and crab-like. 


294 


THE CAXTONS : 


CHAPTER V 

T THINK, Roland,” said my mother, “that the establish- 
ment is settled. Bolt, who is equal to three men at least ; 
Primmins, cook and housekeeper ; Molly, a good stirring girl — 
and willing (though I’ve had some difficulty in persuading her 
to submit not to be called Anna Maria). Their wages are but a 
small item, my dear Roland.” 

“ Hem ! ” said Roland, “ since we can’t do with fewer servants 
at less wages, I suppose we must call it small.” 

“It is so,” said my mother, with mild positiveness. “And, 
indeed, what with the game and fish, and the garden and 
poultry -yard, and your own mutton, our housekeeping will be 
next to nothing.” 

“ Hem ! ” again said the thrifty Roland, with a slight inflec- 
tion of the beetle brows. “ It may be next to nothing, ma’am — 
sister — just as a butcher’s shop may be next to Northumberland 
House ; but there is a vast deal between nothing and that next 
neighbour you have given it.” 

This speech was so like one of my father’s, so naive an 
imitation of that subtle reasoner’s use of the rhetorical figure 
called antanaclasis (or repetition of the same words in a 
different sense), that I laughed and my mother smiled. But 
she smiled reverently, not thinking of the antanaclasis, as, 
laying her hand on Roland’s arm, she replied in the yet 
more formidable figure of speech called epiphonema (or ex- 
clamation), “Yet, with all your economy, you would have 
had us ” 

“Tut!” cried my uncle, parrying the epiphonema with a 
masterly aposiopesis (or breaking off) ; “ tut ! if you had done 
what I wished, I should have had more pleasure for my money ! ” 

My poor mother’s rhetorical armoury supplied no weapon to 
meet that artful aposiopesis ; so she dropped the rhetoric alto- 
gether, and went on with that “unadorned eloquence” natural 
to her, as to other great financial reformers : — “ Well, Roland, 
but I am a good housewife, I assure you, and — don’t scold ; but 
that you never do, — I mean, don’t look as if you would like to 
scold; the fact is, that, even after setting aside £100 a year for 
our little parties ” 

“Little parties! — a hundred a year!” cried the Captain 
aghast. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


295 


My mother pursued her way remorselessly, — “ Which we can 
well afford ; and without counting your half-pay, which you 
must keep for pocket-money and your wardrobe and Blanche’s, 
I calculate that we can allow Pisistratus <£150 a year, which, 
with the scholarship he is to get, will keep him at Cambridge ” 
(at that, seeing the scholarship was as yet amidst the Pleasures 
of Hope, I shook my head doubtfully), “and,” continued my 
mother, not heeding that sign of dissent, “we shall still have 
something to lay by.” 

The Captain’s face assumed a ludicrous expression of compas- 
sion and horror ; he evidently thought my mother’s misfortunes 
had turned her head. 

His tormentor continued. 

“ For,” said my mother, with a pretty calculating shake of 
her head, and a movement of the right forefinger towards the 
five fingers of the left hand, “£370 — the interest of Austin’s 
fortune — and £50 that we may reckon for the rent of our 
house, make £420 a year. Add your £330 a year from the 
farm, sheep-walk, and cottages that you let, and the total is 
£750. Now, with all we get for nothing for our housekeeping, 
as I said before, we can do very well with £500 a year, and 
indeed make a handsome figure. So, after allowing Sisty £150, 
we still have £100 to lay by for Blanche.” 

“ Stop, stop, stop ! ” cried the Captain in great agitation ; 
“ who told you that I had £330 a year ? ” 

“ Why, Bolt, — don’t be angry with him.” 

“ Bolt is a blockhead. From £330 a year take £200, and the 
remainder is all my income, besides my half-pay.” 

My mother opened her eyes, and so did I. 

“To that £130 add, if you please, £130 of your own. All 
that you have over, my dear sister, is yours or Austin’s, or your 
boy’s ; but not a shilling can go to give luxuries to a miserly, 
battered old soldier. Do you understand me ? ” 

“ No, Roland,” said my mother, “ I don’t understand you at 
all. Does not your property bring in £330 a year ? ” 

“ Yes, but it has a debt of £200 a year on it,” said the Captain, 
gloomily and reluctantly. 

“ O Roland ! ” cried my mother, tenderly, and approaching so 
near that, had my father been in the room, I am sure she would 
have been bold enough to kiss the stern Captain, though I 
never saw him look sterner, and less kissable. “O Roland!” 
cried my mother, concluding that famous epiphonema which 
my uncle’s aposiopesis had before nipped in the bud, “and 


296 * 


THE CAXTONS: 


yet you would have made us, who are twice as rich, rob you of 
this little all ! ” 

“ Ah ! ” said Roland, trying to smile, “ but I should have had 
my own way then, and starved you shockingly. No talk then 
of ‘ little parties,’ and such-like. But you must not now turn 
the tables against me, nor bring your £420 a year as a set-off 
to my £130.” 

“Why,” said my mother generously, “you forget the money’s 
worth that you contribute — all that your grounds supply, and all 
that we save by it. I am sure that that’s worth a yearly £300 
at the least.” 

“ Madam — sister,” said the Captain, “ I’m sure you don’t want 
to hurt my feelings. All I have to say is, that, if you add to 
what I bring an equal sum — to keep up the poor old ruin — it 
is the utmost that I can allow, and the rest is not more than 
Pisistratus can spend.” 

So saying, the Captain rose, bowed, and, before either of us 
could stop him, hobbled out of the room. 

“ Dear me, Sisty ! ” said my mother, wringing her hands ; “ I 
have certainly displeased him. How could I guess he had so 
large a debt on the property?” 

“ Did not he pay his son’s debts ? Is not that the reason 
that ” 

“ Ah ! ” interrupted my mother, almost crying, “ and it was that 
which ruffled him ; and I not to guess it? What shall I do ?” 

“ Set to work at a new calculation, dear mother, and let him 
have his own way.” 

“ But then,” said my mother, “ your uncle will mope himself 
to death, and your father will have no relaxation, while you see 
that he has lost his former object in his books. And Blanche 
— and you too. If we were only to contribute what dear 
Roland does, I do not see how, with £260 a year, we could ever 
bring our neighbours round us ! I wonder what Austin would 
say ! I have half a mind — no, I’ll go and look over the week- 
books with Primmins.” 

My mother went her way sorrowfully, and I was left alone. 

Then I looked on the stately old hall, grand in its forlorn 
decay. And the dreams I had begun to cherish at my heart 
swept over me, and hurried me along, far, far away into the 
golden land, whither Hope beckons youth. To restore my 
father’s fortunes — re-weave the links of that broken ambition 
which had knit his genius with the world — rebuild those fallen 
walls — cultivate those barren moors — revive the ancient name — 







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A FAMILY PICTURE 


297 


glad the old soldier’s age— and be to both the brothers what 
Roland had lost — a son ! These were my dreams : and when I 
woke from them, lo ! they had left behind an intense purpose, 
a resolute object. Dream, O youth !— dream manfully and 
nobly, and thy dreams shall be prophets ! 


CHAPTER VI 


LETTER FROM PISISTRATUS CAXTON TO 
ALBERT TREVANION, ESQ., M.P. 


{The confession of a youth who in the Old World finds himself one too many . ) 



dear Mr. Trevanion, — I thank you cordially, and so we 


do all, for your reply to my letter, informing you of the 
villainous traps through which we have passed — not indeed with 
whole skins, but still whole in life and limb— which, considering 
that the traps were three, and the teeth sharp, was more than 
we could reasonably expect. We have taken to the wastes, like 
wise foxes as we are, and I do not think a bait can be found 
that will again snare the fox paternal. As for the fox filial, it 
is different, and I am about to prove to you that he is burning 
to redeem the family disgrace. Ah ! my dear Mr. Trevanion, if 
you are busy with ‘blue-books’ when this letter reaches you, 
stop here, and put it aside for some rare moment of leisure. I 
am about to open my heart to you, and ask you, who know the 
world so well, to aid me in an escape from those jlammantia 
mcenia , wherewith I find that world begirt and enclosed. For 
look you, sir, you and my father were right when you both 
agreed that the mere book-life was not meant for me. And yet 
what is not book-life, to a young man who would make his way 
through the ordinary and conventional paths to fortune ? All 
the professions are so book-lined, book-hemmed, book-choked, 
that wherever these strong hands of mine stretch towards action, 
they find themselves met by octavo ramparts, flanked with quarto 
crenellations. For first, this college life, opening to scholarships, 
and ending, perchance, as you political economists would desire, 
in Malthusian fellowships — premiums for celibacy — consider what 
manner of thing it is ! 

“ Three years, book upon book, — a great Dead Sea before 
one, three years long, and all the apples that grow on the shore 


298 


THE CAXTONS : 


full of the ashes of pica and primer ! Those three years ended, 
the fellowship, it may be, won, — still books — books — if the 
whole world does not close at the college gates. Do I, from 
scholar, effloresce into literary man, author by profession ? — 
books — books ! Do I go into the law ? — books — books. Ars 
longa, vita brevis, which, paraphrased, means that it is slow work 
before one fags one’s way to a brief! Do I turn doctor? Why, 
what but books can kill time, until, at the age of forty, a lucky 
chance may permit me to kill something else ? The Church 
(for which, indeed, I don’t profess to be good enough), — that 
is book-life par excellence, whether inglorious and poor, I wander 
through long lines of divines and fathers ; or, ambitious of 
bishoprics, I amend the corruptions, not of the human heart, 
but of a Greek text, and through defiles of scholiasts and com- 
mentators win my w r ay to the See. In short, barring the noble 
profession of arms — which you know, after all, is not precisely 
the road to fortune — can you tell me any means by which one 
may escape these eternal books, this mental clockwork, and 
corporeal lethargy ? Where can this passion for life that runs 
riot through my veins find its vent ? Where can these stalwart 
limbs and this broad chest grow of value and worth, in this 
hot-bed of cerebral inflammation and dyspeptic intellect? I 
know what is in me ; I know I have the qualities that should 
go with stalwart limbs and broad chest. I have some plain 
common sense, some promptitude and keenness, some pleasure 
in hardy danger, some fortitude in bearing pain — qualities for 
which I bless Heaven, for they are qualities good and useful in 
private life. But in the forum of men, in the market of fortune, 
are they not Jlocci, nauci, nihili ? 

“ In a word, dear sir and friend, in this crowded Old World, 
there is not the same room that our bold forefathers found for 
men to walk about and jostle their neighbours. No ; they 
must sit down like boys at their form, and work out their tasks, 
with rounded shoulders and aching fingers. There has been a 
pastoral age, and a hunting age, and a fighting age. Now we 
have arrived at the age sedentary. Men who sit longest carry 
all before them : puny, delicate fellows, with hands just strong 
enough to wield a pen, eyes so bleared by the midnight lamp 
that they see no joy in that buxom sun (which draws me forth 
into the fields, as life draws the living), and digestive organs 
worn and macerated by the relentless flagellation of the brain. 
Certainly, if this is to be the Reign of Mind, it is idle to repine, 
and kick against the pricks ; but is it true that all these qualities 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


299 


of action that are within me are to go for nothing ? If I were 
rich and happy in mind and circumstance, well and good ; I 
should shoot, hunt, farm, travel, enjoy life, and snap my fingers 
at ambition. If I were so poor and so humbly bred that I could 
turn gamekeeper or whipper-in, as pauper gentlemen virtually 
did of old, well and good too ; I should exhaust this trouble- 
some vitality of mine, by nightly battles with poachers, and 
leaps over double dykes and stone walls. If I were so depressed 
of spirit that I could live without remorse on my father’s small 
means, and exclaim with Claudian, e The earth gives me feasts 
that cost nothing/ well and good too ; it were a life to suit a 
vegetable, or a very minor poet. But as it is ! — here I open 
another leaf of my heart to you ! To say that, being poor, I 
want to make a fortune, is to say that I am an Englishman. 
To attach ourselves to a thing positive, belongs to our practical 
race. Even in our dreams, if we build castles in the air, they 
are not Castles of Indolence, — indeed they have very little of 
the castle about them, and look much more like Hoare’s Bank 
on the east side of Temple Bar ! I desire, then, to make a 
fortune. But I differ from my countrymen, first, by desiring 
only what you rich men would call but a small fortune ; secondly, 
in wishing that I may not spend my whole life in that fortune- 
making. Just see, now, how I am placed. 

“ Under ordinary circumstances, I must begin by taking from 
my father a large slice of an income that will ill spare paring. 
According to my calculation, my parents and ray uncle want 
all they have got — and the subtraction of the yearly sum on 
which Pisistratus is to live, till he can live by his own labours, 
would be so much taken from the decent comforts of his 
kindred. If I return to Cambridge, with all economy, I must 
thus narrow still more the res angusta domi — and when Cambridge 
is over, and I am turned loose upon the world — failing, as is 
likely enough, of the support of a fellowship — how many years 
must I work, or rather, alas ! not w r ork, at the bar (which, after 
all, seems my best calling), before I can in my turn provide for 
those who, till then, rob themselves for me ? — till I have arrived 
at middle life, and they are old and worn-out — till the chink of 
the golden bowl sounds but hollow at the ebbing well ! I would 
wish that, if I can make money, those I love best may enjoy 
it while enjoyment is yet left to them ; that my father shall 
see f The History of Human Error ’ complete, bound in russia 
on his shelves ; that my mother shall have the innocent pleasures 
that content her, before age steals the light from her happy 


300 


THE CAXTONS: 


smile ; that before Roland’s hair is snow-white (alas ! the snows 
there thicken fast), he shall lean on my arm, while we settle 
together where the ruin shall be repaired or where left to the 
owls ; and where the dreary bleak waste around shall laugh 
with the gleam of corn : — for you know the nature of this 
Cumberland soil — you, who possess much of it, and have won 
so many fair acres from the wild : — you know that my uncle’s 
land, now (save a single farm) scarce worth a shilling an acre, 
needs but capital to become an estate more lucrative than ever 
his ancestors owned. You know that, for you have applied your 
capital to the same kind of land, and, in doing so, what blessings 
— which you scarcely think of in your London library — you 
have effected ! — what mouths you feed, what hands you employ ! 
I have calculated that my uncle’s moors, which now scarce main- 
tain two or three shepherds, could, manured by money, main- 
tain two hundred families by their labour. All this is worth 
trying for ! therefore Pisistratus wants to make money. Not 
so much ! he does not require millions — a few spare thousand 
pounds would go a long way ; and with a modest capital to 
begin with, Roland should become a true squire, a real land- 
owner, not the mere lord of a desert. Now then, dear sir, 
advise me how I may, with such qualities as I possess, arrive 
at that capital — ay, and before it is too late — so that money- 
making may not last till my grave. 

“ Turning in despair from this civilised world of ours, I have 
cast my eyes to a world far older, — and yet more to a world in 
its giant childhood. India here, — Australia there ! — what say 
you, sir — you who will see dispassionately those things that 
float before my eyes through a golden haze, looming large in the 
distance? Such is my confidence in your judgment, that you 
have but to say, 'Fool, give up thine El Dorados and stay at 
home — stick to the books and the desk — annihilate that re- 
dundance of animal life that is in thee — grow a mental machine— 
thy physical gifts are of no avail to thee — take thy place among 
the slaves of the Lamp’ — and I will obey without a murmur. 
But if I am right — if I have in me attributes that here find no 
market ; if my repinings are but the instincts of nature, that, 
out of this decrepit civilisation, desire vent for growth in the 
young stir of some more rude and vigorous social system — then 
give me, I pray, that advice which may clothe my idea in 
some practical and tangible embodiments. Have I made 
myself understood ? 

“ We take no newspaper here, but occasionally one finds its 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


301 


way from the parsonage ; and I have lately rejoiced at a 
paragraph that spoke of your speedy entrance into the ad- 
ministration as a thing certain. I write to you before you are 
a minister ; and you see what I seek is not in the way of 
official patronage : A niche in an office ! — oh, to me that were 
worse than all. Yet I did labour hard with you, but — 
that was different : I write to you thus frankly, knowing your 
warm, noble heart — and as if you were my father. Allow' 
me to add my humble but earnest congratulations on Miss 
Trevanion’ s approaching marriage with one worthy, if not of 
her, at least of her station. I do so as becomes one whom you 
have allowed to retain the right to pray for the happiness of 
you and yours. 

“ My dear Mr. Trevanion, this is a long letter, and I dare 
not even read it over, lest, if I do, I should not send it. Take 
it with all its faults, and judge of it with that kindness with 
which you have judged ever your grateful and devoted 
servant, Pisistratus Caxton.” 

LETTER FROM ALBERT TREVANION, ESQ., M.P., 

TO PISISTRATUS CAXTON. 

“ Library of the House of Commons, Tuesday night. 

“ My dear Pisistratus, — ***** is up ! we are in for it for 
two mortal hours. I take flight to the library, and devote 
those hours to you. Don’t be conceited, but that picture of 
yourself which you have placed before me has struck me with 
all the force of an original. The state of mind which you describe 
so vividly must be a very common one, in our era of civilisation, 
yet I have never before seen it made so prominent and life- 
like. You have been in my thoughts all day. Yes, how many 
young men must there be like you, in this Old World, able, 
intelligent, active, and persevering enough, yet not adapted 
for success in any of our conventional professions — f mute, 
inglorious Raleighs/ Your letter, young artist, is an illustra- 
tion of the philosophy of colonising. I comprehend better, 
after reading it, the old Greek colonisation, — the sending out 
not only the paupers, the refuse of an over-populated state, but a 
large proportion of a better class — fellows full of pith and sap, 
and exuberant vitality 3 like yourself, blending, in those wise 
cleruchice , a certain portion of the aristocratic with the more 
democratic element ; not turning a rabble loose upon a new 


302 


THE CAXTONS : 


soil, but planting in the foreign allotments all the rudiments 
of a harmonious state, analogous to that in the mother country 
— not only getting rid of hungry craving mouths, but furnishing 
vent for a waste surplus of intelligence and courage, which at 
home is really not needed, and more often comes to ill than 
to good ; — here only menaces our artificial embankments, but 
there, carried off in an aqueduct, might give life to a desert. 

“ For my part, in my ideal of colonisation, I should like that 
each exportation of human beings had, as of old, its leaders and 
chiefs — not so appointed from the mere quality of rank, often, 
indeed, taken from the humbler classes — but still men to whom 
a certain degree of education should give promptitude, quick- 
ness, adaptability — men in whom their followers can confide. 
The Greeks understood that. Nay, as the colony makes prog- 
ress — as its principal town rises into the dignity of a Capital — 
a polls that needs a polity — I sometimes think it might be wise 
to go still farther, and not only transplant to it a high standard 
of civilisation, but draw it more closely into connection with the 
parent state, and render the passage of spare intellect, educa- 
tion, and civility , to and fro, more facile, by drafting off thither 
the spare scions of royalty itself. I know that many of my more 
* liberal ’ friends would pooh-pooh this notion ; but I am sure 
that the colony altogether, when arrived to a state that would 
bear the importation, would thrive all the better for it. And 
when the day shall come (as to all healthful colonies it must 
come sooner of later), in which the settlement has grown an 
independent state, we may thereby have laid the seeds of a 
constitution and a civilisation similar to our own — with self- 
developed forms of monarchy and aristocracy, though of a 
simpler growth than old societies accept, and not left a strange 
motley chaos of struggling democracy — an uncouth livid giant, 
at which the Frankenstein may well tremble — not because it is 
a giant, but because it is a giant half completed . 1 Depend on it, 
the New World will be friendly or hostile to the Old, not in pro- 
portion to the kinship of race, but in proportion to the similarity of 
manners and institutions — a mighty truth to which we colonisers 
have been blind. 

1 These pages were sent to press before the author had seen Mr. 
Wakefield’s recent work on Colonisation, wherein the views here expressed 
are enforced with great earnestness and conspicuous sagacity. The author 
is not the less pleased at this coincidence of opinion, because he has the 
misfortune to dissent from certain other parts of Mr. Wakefield’s elaborate 
theory. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


303 


“ Passing from these more distant speculations to this positive 
present before us, you see already, from what I have said, that I 
sympathise with your aspirations — that I construe them as you 
would have me ; — looking to your nature and to your objects, I 
give you my advice in a word — Emigrate ! 

“My advice is, however, founded on one hypothesis — viz., 
that you are perfectly sincere — you will be contented with a 
rough life, and with a moderate fortune at the end of your 
probation. Don’t dream of emigrating if you want to make 
a million, or the tenth part of a million. Don’t dream of 
emigrating, unless you can enjoy its hardships,— to bear them 
is not enough ! 

“ Australia is the land for you, as you seem to surmise. 
Australia is the land for two classes of emigrants: 1st, The 
man who has nothing but his wits, and plenty of them ; 2ndly, 
The man who has a small capital, and who is contented to spend 
ten years in trebling it. I assume that you belong to the latter 
class. — Take out <£3000, and before you are thirty years old, you 
may return with £10,000 or £12,000. If that satisfies you, think 
seriously of Australia. By coach, to-morrow, I will send you 
down all the best books and reports on the subject ; and I will 
get you what detailed information I can from the Colonial Office. 
Having read these, and thought over them dispassionately, spend 
some months yet among the sheep-walks of Cumberland ; learn 
all you can, from all the shepherds you can find — from Thyrsis 
to Menalcas. Do more; fit yourself in every way for a life in the 
Bush ; where the philosophy of the division of labour is not yet 
arrived at. Learn to turn your hand to everything. Be some- 
thing of a smith, something of a carpenter — do the best you can 
with the fewest tools : make yourself an excellent shot ; break in 
all the wild horses and ponies you can borrow and beg. Even if 
you want to do none of these things when in your settlement, 
the having learned to do them will fit you for many other things 
not now foreseen. De-fine-gentlemanise yourself from the crown 
of your head to the sole of your foot, and become the greater 
aristocrat for so doing ; for he is more than an aristocrat, he is a 
king, who suffices in all things for himself — who is his own 
master, because he wants no valetaille. I think Seneca has ex- 
pressed that thought before me; and I would quote the passage, 
but the book, I fear, is not in the library of the House of 
Commons. But now (cheers, by Jove! I suppose ***** isdow r n! 

Ah ! it is so ; and C is up, and that cheer followed a sharp 

hit at me. How I wish I were your age, and going to Australia 


304 


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with you !) — But now — to resume my suspended period — but now 
to the important point — capital. You must take that, unless you 
go as a shepherd, and then good-bye to the idea of £10,000 in 
ten years. So, you see, it appears at the first blush that you 
must still come to your father ; but, you will say, with this differ- 
ence, that you borrow the capital with every chance of repaying 
it instead of frittering away the income year after year till you 
are eight-and-thirty or forty at least. Still, Pisistratus, you don’t, 
in this, gain your object at a leap; and my dear old friend ought 
not to lose his son and his money too. You say you write to me 
as to your own father. You know I hate professions ; and if you 
did not mean what you say, you have offended me mortally. As 
a father, then, I take a father’s rights, and speak plainly. A 
friend of mine, Mr. Bolding, a clergyman, has a son — a wild 
fellow, who is likely to get into all sorts of scrapes in England, 
but with plenty of good in him, notwithstanding — frank, bold 
— not wanting in talent, but rather in prudence — easily tempted 
and led away into extravagance. He would make a capital 
colonist (no such temptations in the Bush !) if tied to a youth 
like you. Now I propose, with your leave, that his father shall 
advance him .£1500, which shall not, however, be placed in his 
hands, but in yours, as head partner in the firm. You, on your 
side, shall advance the same sum of £1500, which you shall borrow 
from me for three years without interest. At the end of that 
time interest shall commence ; and the capital, with the interest 
on the said first three years, shall be repaid to me or my exe- 
cutors, on your return. After you have been a year or two in 
the Bush, and felt your way, and learned your business, you may 
then safely borrow £1500 more from your father; and, in the 
meanwhile, you and your partner will have had together the full 
sum of £3000 to commence with. You see in this proposal I 
make you no gift, and I run no risk even by your death. If 
you die insolvent, I will promise to come on your father, poor 
fellow ! — for small joy and small care will he have then in what 
may be left of his fortune. There — I have said all ; and I will 
never forgive you if you reject an aid that will serve you so 
much, and cost me so little. 

“I accept your congratulations on Fanny’s engagement with 
Lord Castleton. When you return from Australia you will still 
be a young man, she (though about your own years) almost a 
middle-aged woman, with her head full of pomps and vanities. 
All girls have a short period of girlhood in common ; but when 
they enter womanhood, the woman becomes the woman of her 


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305 


class. As for me, and the office assigned to me by report, you 

know what I said when we parted, and — but here J comes, 

and tells me that f I am expected to speak, and answer N , 

who is just up, brimful of malice,’ — the house crowded, and 
hungering for personalities. So I, the man of the Old World, 
gird up my loins, and leave you with a sigh, to the fresh youth 
of the New — 

“ ‘ Ne tibi sit duros acuisse in prcelia dentes.’ 

"Yours affectionately, 

"Albert Trevanion.” 


CHAPTER VII 

^O, reader, thou art now at the secret of my heart. 

Wonder not that I, a bookman’s son, and, at certain periods 
of my life, a bookman myself, though of lowly grade in that 
venerable class — wonder not that I should thus, in that transi- 
tion stage between youth and manhood, have turned impatiently 
from books. — Most students, at one time or other in their 
existence, have felt the imperious demand of that restless 
principle in man’s nature, which calls upon each son of Adam to 
contribute his share to the vast treasury of human deeds. And 
though great scholars are not necessarily, nor usually, men of 
action, — yet the men of action whom History presents to our 
survey, have rarely been without a certain degree of scholarly 
nurture. For the ideas which books quicken, books cannot 
always satisfy. And though the royal pupil of Aristotle slept 
with Homer under his pillow, it was not that he might dream 
of composing epics, but of conquering new Ilions in the East. 
Many a man, how little soever resembling Alexander, may still 
have the conqueror’s aim in an object that action can only 
achieve, and the book under his pillow may be the strongest 
antidote to his repose. And how the stern Destinies that shall 
govern the man weave their first delicate tissues amidst the 
earliest associations of the child ! — Those idle tales with which 
the old credulous nurse had beguiled my infancy — tales of 
wonder, knight-errantry, and adventure, had left behind them 
seeds long latent — seeds that might never have sprung up 
above the soil — but that my boyhood was so early put under the 
burning-glass, and in the quick forcing-house, of the London 

u 


306 


THE CAXTONS 


world. There, even amidst books and study, lively observation 
and petulant ambition broke forth from the lush foliage of 
romance — that fruitless leafiness of poetic youth ! And there 
passion, which is a revolution in all the elements of individual 
man, had called a new state of being, turbulent and eager, out 
of the old habits and conventional forms it had buried — ashes 
that speak where the fire has been. Far from me, as from any 
mind of some manliness, be the attempt to create interest by 
dwelling at length on the struggles against a rash and misplaced 
attachment, which it was my duty to overcome ; but all such 
love, as I have before implied, is a terrible unsettler : — 

“ Where once such fairies dance, no grass doth ever grow.” 

To re-enter boyhood, go with meek docility through its dis- 
ciplined routine — how hard had I found that return, amidst the 
cloistered monotony of college ! My love for my father, and my 
submission to his wish, had indeed given some animation to 
objects otherwise distasteful ; but, now that my return to the 
University must be attended with positive privation to those at 
home, the idea became utterly hateful and repugnant. Under 
pretence that I found myself, on trial, not yet sufficiently pre- 
pared to do credit to my father’s name, I had easily obtained 
leave to lose the ensuing college term, and pursue my studies 
at home. This gave me time to prepare my plans, and bring 
round — how shall 1 ever bring round to my adventurous views 
those whom I propose to desert ? Hard it is to get on in the 
world — very hard ! But the most painful step in the way is 
that which starts from the threshold of a beloved home. 

How — ah, how, indeed ! “ No, Blanche, you cannot join me 

to-day ; I am going out for many hours. So it will be late 
before I can be home.” 

Home ! — the word chokes me ! Juba slinks back to his 
young mistress, disconsolate; Blanche gazes at me ruefully from 
our favourite hill-top, and the flowers she has been gathering 
fall unheeded from her basket. I hear my mother’s voice sing- 
ing low, as she sits at work by her open casement. How, — ah, 
how indeed ! 


PART XIII 


CHAPTER I 

gT. CHRYSOSTOM, in his work on The Priesthood, defends de- 
ceit, if for a good purpose, by many scriptural examples ; ends 
his first book by asserting that it is often necessary, and that much 
benefit may arise from it ; and begins his second book by saying 
that it ought not to be called deceit but good management .” 1 

Good management, then, let me call the innocent arts by 
which I now sought to insinuate my project into favour and 
assent with my unsuspecting family. At first I began with 
Roland. I easily induced him to read some of the books, full 
of the charm of Australian life, which Trevanion had sent me ; 
and so happily did those descriptions suit his own erratic tastes, 
and the free half-savage man that lay rough and large within 
that soldierly nature, that he himself, as it were, seemed to 
suggest my own ardent desire — sighed, as the careworn Tre- 
vanion had done, that “he was not my age,” and blew the 
flame that consumed me with his own willing breath. So that 
when at last — wandering one day over the wild moors — I said, 
knowing his hatred of law and lawyers — “Alas, uncle, that 
nothing should be left for me but the bar ! ” Captain Roland 
struck his cane into the peat, and exclaimed, “ Zounds, sir! the bar 
and lying, with truth and a world fresh from God before you ! ” 
“Your hand, uncle — we understand each other. Now help 
me with those two quiet hearts at home ! ” 

“ Plague on my tongue ! what have I done ? ” said the 
Captain, looking aghast. Then, after musing a little time, he 
turned his dark eye on me, and growled out, “ I suspect, young 
sir, you have been laying a trap for me ; and I have fallen into 
it, like an old fool as I am.” 

“ Oh, sir, if you prefer the bar ! ” 

“ Rogue ! ” 

“ Or, indeed, I might perhaps get a clerkship in a merchant’s 
office ? ” 

1 Hohler’s translation. 

307 


308 


THE CAXTONS : 


" If you do, I will scratch you out of the pedigree ! ” 

" Huzza, then, for Australasia ! ” 

"Well, well, well,” said my uncle, 

" With a smile on his lip, and a tear in his eye ; ” 

"the old sea-king’s blood will force its way — a soldier or a 
rover, there is no other choice for you. We shall mourn and 
miss you ; but who can chain the young eagles to the eyrie ? ” 

I had a harder task with my father, who at first seemed to 
listen to me as if I had been talking of an excursion to the 
moon. But I threw in a dexterous dose of the old Greek 
Cleruckice — cited by Trevanion — which set him off full trot on 
his hobby, till after a short excursion to Euboea and the Cher- 
sonese, he was fairly lost amidst the Ionian colonies of Asia 
Minor. I then gradually and artfully decoyed him into his 
favourite science of Ethnology ; and, while he was speculating 
on the origin of the American savages, and considering the rival 
claims of Cimmerians, Israelites, and Scandinavians, I said 
quietly, — " And you, sir, who think that all human improvement 
depends on the mixture of races — you, whose whole theory is an 
absolute sermon upon emigration, and the transplanting and 
interpolity of our species — you, sir, should be the last man to 
chain your son, your elder son, to the soil, while your younger 
is the very missionary of rovers.” 

" Pisistratus,” said my father, " you reason by synecdoche — ■ 
ornamental but illogical : ” and therewith resolved to hear no 
more, my father rose and retreated into his study. 

But his observation, now quickened, began from that day to 
follow my moods and humours — then he himself grew silent and 
thoughtful, and finally he took to long conferences with Roland. 
The result was that, one evening in spring, as I lay listless 
amidst the weeds and fern that sprang up through the melan- 
choly ruins, I felt a hand on my shoulder ; and my father, 
seating himself beside me on a fragment of stone, said earnestly 
— " Pisistratus, let us talk — I had hoped better things from 
your study of Robert Hall.” 

" Nay, dear father, the medicine did me great good : I have not 
repined since, and I look steadfastly and cheerfully on life. 
But Robert Hall fulfilled his mission, and I would fulfil mine.” 

"Is there no mission in thy native land, O planeticose and exal- 
lotriote spirit ? ” 1 asked my father, with compassionate rebuke. 

1 Words coined by Mr. Caxton from TXwrjTucds, disposed to roaming, 
and £%a\\oTpi6(a } to export, to alienate, 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


309 


“ Alas, yes ! But what the impulse of genius is to the great, 
the instinct of vocation is to the mediocre. In every man there 
is a magnet ! in that thing which the man can do best there is 
a loadstone.” 

“ Papae ! ” said my father, opening his eyes ; “ and are no 
loadstones to be found for you nearer than the Great Austral- 
asian Bight ? ” 

“ Ah, sir, if you resort to irony I can say no more ! ” My 
father looked down on me tenderly, as I hung my head, moody 
and abashed. 

“Son,” said he, “do you think that there is any real jest at 
my heart, when the matter discussed is whether you are to put 
wide seas and long years between us ? ” I pressed nearer to his 
side, and made no answer. 

“But I have noted you of late,” continued my father, “and I 
have observed that your old studies are grown distasteful to you ; 
and I have talked with Roland, and I see that your desire is deeper 
than a boy’s mere whim. And then I have asked myself what 
prospect I can hold out at home to induce you to be contented 
here, and I see none ; and therefore I should say to you, ‘ Go 
thy ways, and God shield thee’ — but, Pisistratus, your mother!” 

“Ah, sir, that is indeed the question! and there indeed I shrink. 
But, after all, whatever I were— whether toiling at the bar, or in 
some public office — I should be still so much from home and her. 
And then you, sir, she loves you so entirely, that ” 

“ No,” interrupted my father ; “ you can advance no argu- 
ments like these to touch a mother’s heart. There is but one 
argument that comes home there — is it for your good to leave 
her ? If so, there will be no need of further words. But let us 
not decide that question hastily ; let you and I be together the 
next two months. Bring your books and sit with me ; when you 
want to go out, tap me on the shoulder, and say, 'Come.’ At 
the end of those two months I will say to you ' Go,’ or ' Stay.’ 
And you will trust me ; and if I say the last, you will submit ? ” 

“ Oh yes, sir — yes ! ” 


CHAPTER II 

'T'HIS compact made, my father roused himself from all his 
“*■ studies — devoted his whole thoughts to me — sought with 
all his gentle wisdom to wean me imperceptibly from my one 
fixed tyrannical idea, — ranged through his wide pharmacy of 


310 


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books for such medicaments as might alter the system of my 
thoughts. And little thought he that his very tenderness and 
wisdom worked against him, for at each new instance of either 
my heart called aloud, “ Is it not that thy tenderness may be 
repaid, and thy wisdom be known abroad, that I go from thee 
into the strange land, O my father ! ” 

And the two months expired, and my father saw that the 
magnet had turned unalterably to the loadstone in the great 
Australasian Bight; and he said to me, “Go, and comfort your 
mother. I have told her your wish, and authorised it by my 
consent, for I believe now that it is for your good.” 

I found my mother in the little room she had appropriated to 
herself next my father’s study. And in that room there was a 
pathos which I have no words to express ; for my mother’s meek, 
gentle, womanly soul spoke there, so that it was the Home of 
Home. The care with which she had transplanted from the 
brick house, and lovingly arranged, all the humble memorials 
of old times, dear to her affections — the black silhouette of my 
father’s profile cut in paper, in the full pomp of academics, cap 
and gown (how had he ever consented to sit for it !) framed and 
glazed in the place of honour over the little hearth, and boyish 
sketches of mine at the Hellenic Institute, first essays in sepia 
and Indian ink, to animate the walls, and bring her back, when 
she sat there in the twilight, musing alone, to sunny hours, 
when Sisty and the young mother threw daisies at each other ; 
— and covered with a great glass shade, and dusted each day 
with her own hand, the flower-pot Sisty had bought with the 
proceeds of the domino-box, on that memorable occasion on 
which he had learned “ how bad deeds are repaired with good.” 
There, in one corner, stood the little cottage piano, which I 
remembered all my life — old-fashioned, and with the jingling 
voice of approaching decrepitude, but still associated with such 
melodies as, after childhood, we hear never more ! And in the 
modest hanging shelves, which looked so gay with ribbons, and 
tassels, and silken cords — my mother’s own library, saying more 
to the heart than all the cold wise poets whose souls my father 
invoked in his grand Heraclea. The Bible over which, with 
eyes yet untaught to read, I had hung in vague awe and love, 
as it lay open on my mother’s lap, while her sweet voice, then 
only serious, was made the oracle of its truths. And my first 
lesson-books were there, all hoarded. And bound in blue and 
gold, but elaborately papered up, “Cowper’s Poems” — a gift from 
my father in the days of courtship — sacred treasure, which not 









A FAMILY PICTURE 


311 


even I had the privilege to touch ; and which my mother took 
out only in the great crosses and trials of conjugal life, whenever 
some words less kind than usual had dropped unawares from her 
scholar’s absent lips. Ah ! all these poor household gods, all 
seemed to look on me with mild anger ; and from all came a 
voice to my soul, “ Cruel, dost thou forsake us ! ” And amongst 
them sat my mother, desolate as Rachel, and weeping silently. 

“ Mother ! mother ! ” I cried, falling on her neck, “ forgive me 
— it is past — I cannot leave you ! ” 


CHAPTER III 

"XTO — no ! it is for your good — Austin says so. Go — it is but the 
^ first shock.” 

Then to my mother I opened the sluices of that deep I had 
concealed from scholar and soldier. To her I poured all the 
wild, restless thoughts which wandered through the ruins of 
love destroyed — to her I confessed what to myself I had scarcely 
before avowed. And when the picture of that, the darker, side 
of my mind was shown, it was with a prouder face, and less 
broken voice, that I spoke of the manlier hopes and nobler aims 
that gleamed across the wrecks and the desert, and showed me 
my escape. 

“Did you not once say, mother, that you had felt it like a 
remorse, that my father’s genius passed so noiselessly away, — 
half accusing the happiness you gave him for the death of his 
ambition in the content of his mind ? Did you not feel a new 
object in life when the ambition revived at last, and you thought 
you heard the applause of the world murmuring round your 
scholar’s cell ? Did you not share in the day-dreams your 
brother conjured up, and exclaim, f If my brother could be the 
means of raising him in the world ! ’ and when you had thought 
we had found the w r ay to fame and fortune, did you not sob out 
from your full heart, f And it is my brother who will pay back 
to his son — all — all he gave up for me ’ ? ” 

" I cannot bear this, Sisty ! — cease, cease ! ” 

" No ; for do you not yet understand me ? Will it not be 
better still, i i your son — yours — restore to your Austin all that 
he lost, no matter how ? If through your son, mother, you do 
indeed make the world hear of your husband’s genius — restore 
the spring to his mind, the glory to his pursuits — if you rebuild 


312 


THE CAXTONS: 


even that vaunted ancestral name, which is glory to our poor 
sonless Roland — if your son can restore the decay of generations, 
and reconstruct from the dust the whole house into which you 
have entered, its meek presiding angel ? — ah, mother ! if this 
can be done, it will be your work ; for unless you can share my 
ambition — unless you can dry those eyes, and smile in my face, 
and bid me go, with a cheerful voice — all my courage melts from 
my heart, and again I say, 1 cannot leave you ! ” 

Then my mother folded her arms round me, and we both wept, 
and could not speak — but we were both happy. 


CHAPTER IV 

"VTOW the worst was over, and my mother was the most heroic 
^ of us all. So I began to prepare myself in good earnest, 
and I followed Trevanion’s instructions with a perseverance 
which I could never, at that young day, have thrown into the 
dead life of books. I was in a good school, amongst our Cum- 
berland sheep-walks, to learn those simple elements of rural art 
which belong to the pastoral state. Mr. Sidney, in his admir- 
able “Australian Hand-Book,” recommends young gentlemen 
who think of becoming settlers in the Bush to bivouac for three 
months on Salisbury Plain. That book was not then written, 
or I might have taken the advice ; meanwhile I think, with 
due respect to such authority, that I went through a prepara- 
tory training quite as useful in seasoning the future emigrant. 
I associated readily with the kindly peasants and craftsmen, 
who became my teachers. With what pride I presented my 
father with a desk, and my mother with a workbox, fashioned 
by my own hands ! I made Bolt a lock for his plate-chest, 
and (that last was my magnum opus, my great masterpiece) I 
repaired and absolutely set going an old turret-clock in the 
tower, that had stood at 2 p.m. since the memory of man. I 
loved to think, each time the hour sounded, that those who 
heard its deep chime would remember me. But the flocks 
were my main care : the sheep that I tended and helped to 
shear, and the lamb that I hooked out of the great marsh, and 
the three venerable ewes that I nursed through a mysterious 
sort of murrain, which puzzled all the neighbourhood — are they 
not written in thy loving chronicles, O House of Caxton ! 

And now, since much of the success of my experiment must 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


313 


depend oil the friendly terms I could establish with my intended 
partner, I wrote to Trevanion, begging him to get the young 
gentleman who was to join me, and whose capital I was to 
administer, to come and visit us. Trevanion complied, and 
there arrived a tall fellow, somewhat more than six feet high, 
answering to the name of Guy Bolding, in a cut-away sporting 
coat, with a dog-whistle tied to the button-hole : drab shorts 
and gaiters, and a waistcoat with all manner of strange furtive 
pockets. Guy Bolding had lived a year and a half at Oxford 
as a “ fast man ” ; so “ fast ” had he lived that there was scarcely 
a tradesman at Oxford into whose books he had not contrived 
to run. 

His father was compelled to withdraw him from the university, 
at which he had already had the honour of being plucked for 
“ the little go ” ; and the young gentleman, on being asked for 
what profession he was fit, had replied with conscious pride, 
“ That he could tool a coach ! ” In despair, the sire, who owed 
his living to Trevanion, had asked the statesman’s advice, and 
the advice had fixed me with a partner in expatriation. 

My first feeling in greeting the “ fast ” man was certainly 
that of deep disappointment and strong repugnance. But I was 
determined not to be too fastidious ; and, having a lucky knack 
of suiting myself pretty well to all tempers (without which a 
man had better not think of loadstones in the great Australasian 
Bight), I contrived before the first week was out to establish 
so many points of connection between us, that we became the 
best friends in the world. Indeed, it would have been my 
fault if we had not, for Guy Bolding, with all his faults, was one 
of those excellent creatures who are nobody’s enemies but their 
own. His good-humour was inexhaustible. Not a hardship or 
privation came amiss to him. He had a phrase, “ Such fun ! ” 
that always rushed laughingly to his lips when another man 
would have cursed and groaned. If we lost our way in the 
great trackless moors, missed our dinner, and were half-famished, 
Guy rubbed hands that would have felled an ox, and chuckled 
out, “ Such fun ! ” If we stuck in a bog, if we were caught in 
a thunderstorm, if we were pitched head-over-heels by the wild 
colts we undertook to break in, Guy Bolding’s sole elegy was 
“ Such fun.” That grand shibboleth of philosophy only forsook 
him at the sight of an open book. I don’t think that, at that 
time, he could have found “fun” even in Don Quixote. This 
hilarious temperament had no insensibility ; a kinder heart 
never beat, — but, to be sure, it beat to a strange, restless, taran- 


314 


THE CAXTONS 


tula sort of measure, which kept it in a perpetual dance. It 
made him one of those officiously good fellows, who are never 
quiet themselves, and never let any one else be quiet if they 
can help it. But Guy’s great fault, in this prudent world, was 
his absolute incontinence of money. If you had turned a 
Euphrates of gold into his pockets at morning, it would have 
been as dry as the great Sahara by twelve at noon. What he 
did with the money was a mystery as much to himself as to 
every one else. His father said in a letter to me, that “ he had 
seen him shying at sparrows with half-crowns ! ” That such a 
young man could come to no good in England, seemed perfectly 
clear. Still, it is recorded of many great men, who did not end 
their days in a workhouse, that they were equally non-retentive 
of money. Schiller when he had nothing else to give away, 
gave the clothes from his back, and Goldsmith the blankets 
from his bed. Tender hands found it necessary to pick Beet- 
hoven’s pockets at home before he walked out. Great heroes, 
who have made no scruple of robbing the whole world, have 
been just as lavish as poor poets and musicians. Alexander, 
in parcelling out his spoils, left himself “ hope ! ” And as for 
Julius Caesar, he was two millions in debt when he shied his last 
half-crown at the sparrows in Gaul. Encouraged by these illus- 
trious examples, I had hopes of Guy Bolding ; and the more as 
he was so aware of his own infirmity that he was perfectly con- 
tented with the arrangement which made me treasurer of his 
capital, and even besought me, on no account, let him beg ever 
so hard, to permit his own money to come in his own way. In 
fact, I contrived to gain a great ascendency over his simple, 
generous, thoughtless nature : and by artful appeals to his 
affections — to all he owed to his father for many bootless 
sacrifices, and to the duty of providing a little dower for his 
infant sister, whose meditated portion had half gone to pay his 
college debts — I at last succeeded in fixing into his mind an 
object to save for. 

Three other companions did I select for our Cleruchia. The 
first was the son of our old shepherd, who had lately married, 
but was not yet encumbered with children, — a good shepherd, 
and an intelligent, steady fellow. The second was a very 
different character ; he had been the dread of the whole squire- 
archy. A more bold and dexterous poacher did not exist. Now 
my acquaintance with this latter person, named Will Peterson, 
and more popularly “ Will o’ the Wisp,” had commenced thus : — 
Bolt had managed to rear in a small copse about a mile from the 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


315 


house — and which was the only bit of ground in my uncle’s 
domains that might by courtesy be called “ a wood ” — a young 
colony of pheasants, that he dignified by the title of a “pre- 
serve.” This colony was audaciously despoiled and grievously 
depopulated, in spite of two watchers, who, with Bolt, guarded 
for seven nights successively the slumbers of the infant settle- 
ment. So insolent was the assault, that bang, bang, went the 
felonious gun — behind, before — within but a few yards of the 
sentinels — and the gunner was off*, and the prey seized, before 
they could rush to the spot. The boldness and skill of the 
enemy soon proclaimed him, to the experienced watchers, to 
be Will o’ the Wisp : and so great was their dread of this 
fellow’s strength and courage, and so complete their despair 
of being a match for his swiftness and cunning, that after the 
seventh night the watchers refused to go out any longer ; and 
poor Bolt himself was confined to his bed by an attack of what 
a doctor would have called rheumatism, and a moralist, rage. 
My indignation and sympathy were greatly excited by this 
mortifying failure, and my interest romantically aroused by the 
anecdotes I had heard of Will o’ the Wisp ; accordingly, armed 
with a thick bludgeon, I stole out at night, and took my way 
to the copse. The leaves were not off the trees, and how the 
poacher contrived to see his victims I know not ; but five shots 
did he fire, and not in vain, without allowing me to catch 
a glimpse of him. I then retreated to the outskirt of the copse, 
and waited patiently by an angle, which commanded two sides 
of the wood. Just as the dawn began to peep, I saw my man 
emerge within twenty yards of me. I held my breath, suffered 
him to get a few steps from the wood, crept on so as to intercept 
his retreat, and then pounce — such a bound ! My hand was 
on his shoulder — prr, prr, — no eel was ever more lubricate. He 
slid from me like a thing immaterial, and was off over the moors 
with a swiftness which might well have baffled any clodhopper 
— a race whose calves are generally absorbed in the soles of 
their hobnail shoes. But the Hellenic Institute, with its classical 
gymnasia, had trained its pupils in all bodily exercises ; and 
though the Will o’ the Wisp was swift for a clodhopper, he 
was no match at running with any youth who had spent his 
boyhood in the discipline of cricket, prisoner’s bar, and hunt- 
the-hare. I reached him at length, and brought him to bay. 

“ Stand back ! ” said he, panting, and taking aim with his 
gun ; “ it is loaded.” 

“Yes,” said I; “but though you’re a brave poacher, you 


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dare not fire at your fellow-man. Give up the gun this 
instant.” 

My address took him by surprise ; he did not fire. I struck up 
the barrel, and closed on him. We grappled pretty tightly, and 
in the wrestle the gun went off. The man loosened his hold. 
" Lord ha’ mercy ! I have not hurt you ? ” he said falteringly. 

" My good fellow — no,” said I ; " and now let us throw aside 
gun and bludgeon, and fight it out like Englishmen, or else let 
us sit down and talk over it like friends.” 

The Will o’ the Wisp scratched its head and laughed. 

"Well, you’re a queer one!” quoth it. And the poacher 
dropped the gun and sat down. 

We did talk it over, and I obtained Peterson’s promise to 
respect the preserve henceforth ; and we thereon grew so 
cordial that he walked home with me, and even presented me, 
shyly and apologetically, with the five pheasants he had shot. 
From that time I sought him out. He was a young fellow not 
four- and- twenty, who had taken to poaching from the wild sport 
of the thing, and from some confused notions that he had a 
licence from Nature to poach. I soon found out that he was 
meant for better things than to spend six months of the twelve 
in prison, and finish his life on the gallows after killing a game- 
keeper. That seemed to me his most probable destiny in the 
Old World, so 1 talked him into a burning desire for the New 
One ; and a most valuable aid in the Bush he proved too. 

My third selection was in a personage who could bring little 
physical strength to help us, but who had more mind (though 
with a wrong twist in it) than both the others put together. 

A worthy couple in the village had a son, who being slight 
and puny, compared to the Cumberland breed, was shouldered 
out of the market of agricultural labour, and went off, yet a 
boy, to a manufacturing town. Now about the age of thirty, 
this mechanic, disabled for his work by a long illness, came 
home to recover ; and in a short time we heard of nothing but 
the pestilential doctrines with which he was either shocking or 
infecting our primitive villagers. According to report, Corcyra 
itself never engendered a democrat more awful. The poor man 
was really very ill, and his parents very poor ; but his unfortu- 
nate doctrines dried up all the streams of charity that usually 
flowed through our kindly hamlet. The clergyman (an 
excellent man, but of the old school) walked by the house as if 
it were tabooed. The apothecary said, "Miles Square ought 
to have wine ; ” but he did not send him any. The farmers 


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held his name in execration, for he had incited all their 
labourers to strike for another shilling a week. And but for 
the old Tower, Miles Square would soon have found his way to 
the only republic in which he could obtain that democratic 
fraternisation for which he sighed — the grave being, I suspect, 
the sole commonwealth which attains that dead flat of social 
equality that life in its every principle so heartily abhors. 

My uncle went to see Miles Square, and came back the 
colour of purple. Miles Square had preached him a long 
sermon on the unholiness of war. “Even in defence of your 
king and country ! ” had roared the Captain ; and Miles Square 
had replied with a remark upon kings in general, that the 
Captain could not have repeated without expecting to see the 
old Tower fall about his ears ; and with an observation about 
the country in particular, to the effect that “the country would 
be much better off if it were conquered ! ” On hearing the 
report of these loyal and patriotic replies, my father said 
“ Papae ! ” and, roused out of his usual philosophical indiffer- 
ence, went himself to visit Miles Square. My father returned 
as pale as my uncle had been purple. “And to think,” said 
he mournfully, “ that in the town whence this man comes, there 
are, he tells me, ten thousand other of God’s creatures who 
speed the work of civilisation while execrating its laws ! ” 

But neither father nor uncle made any opposition when, 
with a basket laden with wine and arrowroot, and a neat 
little Bible, bound in brown, my mother took her way to the 
excommunicated cottage. Her visit was as signal a failure 
as those that preceded it. Miles Square refused the basket ; 
“ he was not going to accept alms, and eat the bread of 
charity;” and on my mother meekly suggesting that, “if 
Mr. Miles Square would condescend to look into the Bible, he 
would see that even charity was no sin in giver or recipient,” 
Mr. Miles Square had undertaken to prove that, according to 
the Bible, he had as much a right to my mother’s property as 
she had — that all things should be in common— and, when all 
things were in common, what became of charity ? No ; he 
could not eat my uncle’s arrowroot, and drink his wine, while 
my uncle was improperly withholding from him and his fellow- 
creatures so many unprofitable acres : the land belonged to 
the people. It was now the turn of Pisistratus to go. He 
went once, and he went often. Miles Square and Pisistratus 
wrangled and argued— argued and wrangled — and ended by 
taking a fancy to each other; for this poor Miles Square was 


318 


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not half so bad as his doctrines. His errors arose from intense 
sympathy with the sufferings he had witnessed, amidst the 
misery wdiich accompanies the reign of millocratism, and from 
the vague aspirations of a half-taught, impassioned, earnest 
nature. By degrees, I persuaded him to drink the wine and 
eat the arrowroot, en attendant that millennium which was to 
restore the land to the people. And then my mother came 
again and softened his heart, and, for the first time in his life, 
let into its cold crotchets the warm light of human gratitude. 
I lent him some books, amongst others a few volumes on 
Australia. A passage in one of the latter in which it was said 
“that an intelligent mechanic usually made his way in the 
colony, even as a shepherd, better than a dull agricultural 
labourer,” caught hold of his fancy, and seduced his aspirations 
into a healthful direction. Finally, as he recovered, he entreated 
me to let him accompany me. And as I may not have to return 
to Miles Square, I think it right here to state, that he did go 
with me to Australia, and did succeed, first as a shepherd, next 
as a superintendent, and finally, on saving money, as a land- 
owner ; and that, in spite of his opinions of the unholiness of 
war, he was no sooner in possession of a comfortable log home- 
stead, than he defended it with uncommon gallantry against 
an attack of the aborigines, whose right to the soil was, to say 
the least of it, as good as his claim to my uncle’s acres ; that he 
commemorated his subsequent acquisition of a fresh allotment, 
with the stock on it, by a little pamphlet, published at Sydney, 
on the “ Sanctity of the Rights of Property ; ” and that, when I 
left the colony, having been much pestered by two refractory 
“helps” that he had added to his establishment, he had just 
distinguished himself by a very anti-levelling lecture upon the 
duties of servants to their employers. What would the Old 
World have done for this man ? 


CHAPTER V 

£ HAD not been in haste to conclude my arrangements, for, 
independently of my wish to render myself acquainted with 
the small useful crafts that might be necessary to me in a life 
that makes the individual man a state in himself, I naturally 
desired to habituate my kindred to the idea of our separation, 
and to plan and provide for them all such substitutes or distrac- 


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319 


tions, in compensation for my loss,, as my fertile imagination 
could suggest. At first, for the sake of Blanche, Roland, and 
my mother, I talked the Captain into reluctant sanction of his 
sister-in-law’s proposal, to unite their incomes and share alike, 
without considering which party brought the larger proportion 
into the firm. I represented to him that, unless he made that 
sacrifice of his pride, my mother would be wholly without those 
little notable uses and objects, those small household pleasures, 
so dear to woman ; that all society in the neighbourhood would 
be impossible, and that my mother’s time would hang so heavily 
on her hands, that her only resource would be to muse on the 
absent one, and fret. Nay, if he persisted in so false a pride, 
I told him, fairly, that I should urge my father to leave the 
Tower. These representations succeeded, and hospitality had 
commenced in the old hall, and a knot of gossips had centred 
round my mother — groups of laughing children had relaxed the 
still brow of Blanche — and the Captain himself was a more 
cheerful and social man. My next point was to engage my 
father in the completion of the Great Book. “ Ah, sir,” said I, 
“give me an inducement to toil, a reward for my industry. 
Let me think, in each tempting pleasure, each costly vice — No, 
no ; I will save for the Great Book ! and the memory of the 
father shall still keep the son from error. Ah, look you, sir ! 
Mr. Trevanion offered me the loan of £1500 necessary to 
commence with ; but you generously and at once said — f No ; 
you must not begin life under the load of debt.’ And I knew 
you were right and yielded — yielded the more gratefully that 
I could not but forfeit something of the just pride of manhood 
in incurring such an obligation to the father of — Miss Trevanion. 
Therefore I have taken that sum from you — a sum that would 
almost have sufficed to establish your younger and worthier child 
in the world for ever. To that child let me repay it, otherwise 
I will not take it. Let me hold it as a trust for the Great 
Book ; and promise me that the Great Book shall be ready when 
your wanderer returns, and accounts for the missing talent.” 

And my father pished a little, and rubbed off the dew that 
had gathered on his spectacles. But I would not leave him in 
peace till he had given me his word that the Great Book should 
go on d pas du geaiit — nay, till I had seen him sit down to it 
with good heart, and the wheel went round again in the quiet 
mechanism of that gentle life. 

Finally, and as the culminating acme of my diplomacy, I 
effected the purchase of the neighbouring apothecary’s practice 


320 


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and goodwill for Squills, upon terms which he willingly subscribed 
to ; for the poor man had pined at the loss of his favourite 
patients, though, Heaven knows, they did not add much to 
his income. And as for my father, there was no man who 
diverted him more than Squills, though he accused him of being 
a materialist, and set his whole spiritual pack of sages to worry 
and bark at him, from Plato and Zeno to Reid and Abraham 
Tucker. 

Thus, although I have very loosely intimated the flight of 
time, more than a whole year elapsed from the date of our 
settlement at the Tower and that fixed for my departure. 

In the meanwhile, despite the rarity amongst us of that 
phenomenon, a newspaper, we were not so utterly cut off from 
the sounds of the far-booming world beyond, but what the 
intelligence of a change in the administration and the appoint- 
ment of Mr. Trevanion to one of the great offices of state 
reached our ears. I had kept up no correspondence with Tre- 
vanion subsequent to the letter that occasioned Guy Holding’s 
visit ; I wrote now to congratulate him : his reply was short 
and hurried. 

An intelligence that startled me more, and more deeply 
moved my heart, was conveyed to me, some three months or 
so before my departure, by Trevanion’s steward. The ill-health 
of Lord Castleton had deferred his marriage, intended originally 
to be celebrated as soon as he arrived of age. He left the 
university with the honours of " a double first class ” ; and his 
constitution appeared to rally from the effects of studies more 
severe to him than they might have been to a man of quicker 
and more brilliant capacities — when a feverish cold, caught at 
a county meeting, in which his first public appearance was so 
creditable as fully to justify the warmest hopes of his party, 
produced inflammation of the lungs, and ended fatally. The 
startling contrast forced on my mind — here, sudden death and 
cold clay — there, youth in its first flower, princely rank, bound- 
less wealth, the sanguine expectation of an illustrious career, 
and the prospect of that happiness which smiled from the eyes 
of Fanny — that contrast impressed me with a strange awe : 
death seems so near to us when it strikes those whom life most 
flatters and caresses. Whence is that curious sympathy that 
we all have with the possessors of worldly greatness, when the 
hour-glass is shaken and the scythe descends ? If the famous 
meeting between Diogenes and Alexander had taken place not 
before, but after the achievements which gave to Alexander 


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the name of Great, the cynic would not, perhaps, have envied 
the hero his pleasures nor his splendours — neither the charms 
of Statira nor the tiara of the Mede ; but if, the day after, a cry 
had gone forth, “ Alexander the Great is dead ! ” verily I believe 
that Diogenes would have coiled himself up in his tub, and 
felt that with the shadow of the stately hero, something of 
glory and of warmth had gone from that sun, which it should 
darken never more. In the nature of man, the humblest or the 
hardest, there is a something that lives in all of the Beautiful 
or the Fortunate, which hope and desire have appropriated, 
even in the vanities of a childish dream. 


CHAPTER VI 

T^HY are you here all alone, cousin ? How cold and still it 
* * is amongst the graves ! ” 

“ Sit down beside me, Blanche ; it is not colder in the church- 
yard than on the village green.” 

And Blanche sat down beside me, nestled close to me, and 
leant her head upon my shoulder. We were both long silent. 
It w r as an evening in the early spring, clear and serene — 
the roseate streaks were fading gradually from the dark grey 
of long, narrow, fantastic clouds. Tall, leafless poplars, that 
stood in orderly level line, on the lowland between the church- 
yard and the hill, with its crown of ruins, left their sharp 
summits distinct against the sky. But the shadows coiled dull 
and heavy round the evergreens that skirted the churchyard, 
so that their outline was vague and confused ; and there was a 
depth in that lonely stillness, broken only when the thrush flew 
out from the lower bushes, and the thick laurel leaves stirred 
reluctantly, and again were rigid in repose. There is a certain 
melancholy in the evenings of early spring, which is among 
those influences of Nature the most universally recognised, the 
most difficult to explain. The silent stir of reviving life, which 
does not yet betray signs in the bud and blossom — only in a 
softer clearness in the air, a more lingering pause in the slowly 
lengthening day ; a more delicate freshness and balm in the 
twilight atmosphere ; a more lively, yet still unquiet note from 
the birds, settling down into their coverts ; — the vague sense 
under all that hush, which still outwardly wears the black 
sterility of winter — of the busy change, hourly, momently, at 


322 


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work — renewing the youth of the world, reclothing with vigorous 
bloom the skeletons of things — all these messages from the 
heart of Nature to the heart of Man may well affect and move 
us. But why with melancholy? No thought on our part 
connects and construes the low, gentle voices. It is not thought 
that replies and reasons : it is feeling that hears and dreams. 
Examine not, O child of man ! — examine not that mysterious 
melancholy with the hard eyes of thy reason ; thou canst not 
impale it on the spikes of thy thorny logic, nor describe its 
enchanted circle by problems conned from thy schools. Borderer 
thyself of two worlds — the Dead and the Living — give thine ear 
to the tones, bow thy soul to the shadows, that steal, in the 
Season of Change, from the dim Border Land. 

Blanche (in a whisper). — “What are you thinking of? — 
speak, pray ! ” 

Pisistratus. — “ I was not thinking, Blanche ; or, if I were, the 
thought is gone at the mere effort to seize or detain it.” 

Blanche (after a pause). — “ I know what you mean. It is the 
same with me often — so often, when I am sitting by myself, 
quite still. It is just like the story Primmins was telling us the 
other evening, f how there was a woman in her village who saw 
things and people in a piece of crystal, not bigger than my 
hand : 1 they passed along as large as life, but they were only 
pictures in the crystal.’ Since I heard the story, when aunt 
asks me what I am thinking of, I long to say, 'I’m not thinking ! 
I am seeing pictures in the crystal ! ’ ” 

Pisistratus. — “Tell my father that ; it will please him. There 
is more philosophy in it than you are aware of, Blanche. There 
are wise men who have thought the whole world, its f pride, 
pomp, and circumstance,’ only a phantom image — a picture in 
the crystal.” 

Blanche. — “ And I shall see you — see us both, as we are sit- 
ting here — and that star which has just risen yonder — see it 

1 In primitive villages in the west of England, the belief that the absent 
may be seen in a piece of crystal is, or was not many years ago, by no 
means an uncommon superstition. I have seen more than one of these 
magic mirrors, which Spenser, by the way, has beautifully described. 
They are about the size and shape of a Swan’s egg. It is not every one, 
however, who can be a crystal-seer ; like second-sight, it is a special gift. 
N.B. — Since the above note (appended to the first edition of this work) 
was written, crystals and crystal-seers have become very familiar to those 
who interest themselves in speculations upon the disputed phenomena 
ascribed to Mesmerical Clairvoyance. 


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323 


all in my crystal — when you are gone ! — gone, cousin ! ” (And 
Blanche’s head drooped.) 

There was something so quiet and deep in the tenderness of 
this poor motherless child, that it did not affect one superficially, 
like a child’s loud momentary affection, in which we know that 
the first toy will replace us. I kissed my little cousin’s pale 
face, and said, “ And I too, Blanche, have my crystal ; and when 
I consult it, I shall be very angry if I see you sad and fretting, 
or seated alone. For you must know, Blanche, that that is all 
selfishness. God made us, not to indulge only in crystal pictures, 
weave idle fancies, pine alone, and mourn over what we cannot 
help — but to be alert and active — givers of happiness. Now, 
Blanche, see what a trust I am going to bequeath you. You are 
to supply my place to all whom I leave. You are to bring sun- 
shine wherever you glide with that shy, soft step — whether to 
your father, when you see his brows knit and his arms crossed 
(that, indeed, you always do), or to mine, when the volume drops 
from his hand — when he walks to and fro the room, restless, 
and murmuring to himself — then you are to steal up to him, 
put your hand in his, lead him back to his books, and whisper, 
f What will Sisty say if his younger brother, the Great Book, is 
not grown up when he comes back ? ’ — And my poor mother, 
Blanche ! — ah, how can I counsel you there — how tell you where 
to find comfort for her ? Only, Blanche, steal into her heart and 
be her daughter. And, to fulfil this threefold trust, you must 
not content yourself with seeing pictures in the crystal — do you 
understand me ? ” 

“ Oh yes,” said Blanche, raising her eyes, while the tears rolled 
from them, and folding her arms resolutely on her breast. 

“ And so,” said I, “ as we two, sitting in this quiet burial- 
ground, take new heart for the duties and cares of life, so see, 
Blanche, how the stars come out, one by one, to smile upon us ; 
for they, too, glorious orbs as they are, perform their appointed 
tasks. Things seem to approximate to God in proportion to 
their vitality and movement. Of all things, least inert and 
sullen should be the soul of man. How the grass grows up 
over the very graves — quickly it grows and greenly — but neither 
so quick nor so green, my Blanche, as hope and comfort from 
human sorrows.” 


PART XIV 


CHAPTER I 


'T'HERE is a beautiful and singular passage in Dante (which 
has not perhaps attracted the attention it deserves), wherein 
the stern Florentine defends Fortune from the popular accusa- 
tions against her. According to him, she is an angelic power 
appointed by the Supreme Being to direct and order the 
course of human splendours : she obeys the will of God ; she 
is blessed, and, hearing not those who blaspheme her, calm and 
aloft amongst the other angelic powers, revolves her spheral 
course, and rejoices in her beatitude . 1 

This is a conception very different from the popular notion 
which Aristophanes, in his true instinct of things popular, 
expresses by the sullen lips of his Plutus. That deity accounts 
for his blindness by saying, that “when a boy, he had indis- 
creetly promised to visit only the good,” and Jupiter was so 
envious of the good that he blinded the poor money-god. 
Whereon Chremylus asks him, whether, “if he recovered his 
sight, he would frequent the company of the good?” “Cer- 
tainly,” quoth Plutus, “for I have not seen them ever so long.” 
“Nor I either,” rejoins Chremylus pithily, “for all I can see 
out of both eyes.” 

But that misanthropical answer of Chremylus is neither here 
nor there, and only diverts us from the real question, and that 
is, “Whether Fortune be a heavenly, Christian angel, or a 
blind, blundering, old heathen deity ? ” For my part, I hold 
with Dante — for which, if I were so pleased, or if, at this 
period of my memoirs, I had half-a-dozen pages to spare, I 
could give many good reasons. One thing, however, is quite 
clear — that, whether Fortune be more like Plutus or an angel, 


1 Dante here evidently associates Fortune with the planetary influences 
of judicial astrology. It is doubtful whether Schiller ever read Dante ; 
but in one of his most thoughtful poems he undertakes the same defence 
of Fortune, making the Fortunate a part of the beautiful. 

324 


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325 


it is no use abusing her — one may as well throw stones at a 
star. And I think, if one looked narrowly at her operations, 
one might perceive that she gives every man a chance, at 
least once in his life ; if he take and make the best of it, she 
will renew her visits ; if not, iinr ad astra ! And therewith 
I am reminded of an incident quaintly narrated by Mariana 
in his “ History of Spain,” how the army of the Spanish kings 
got out of a sad hobble among the mountains at the Pass of 
Losa, by the help of a shepherd, who showed them the way. 
“ But,” saith Mariana parenthetically, “ some do say the shep- 
herd was an angel ; for, after he had shown the way, he w as 
never seen more.” That is, the angelic nature of the guide 
was proved by being only once seen, and, after having got 
the army out of the hobble, leaving it to fight or run aw r ay, 
as it had most mind to. Now, I look upon that shepherd, or 
angel, as a very good type of my fortune at least. The appari- 
tion showed me my way in the rocks to the great “ Battle of 
Life ” : after that, — hold fast and strike hard ! 

Behold me in London with Uncle Roland. My poor parents 
naturally wished to accompany me, and take the last glimpse 
of the adventurer on board ship; but I, knowing that the 
parting would seem less dreadful to them by the hearthstone, 
and while they could say, “ He is with Roland — he is not yet 
gone from the land ” — insisted on their staying behind ; and 
thus the farewell was spoken. But Roland, the old soldier, 
had so many practical instructions to give — could so help me 
in the choice of the outfit and the preparations for the voyage, 
that I could not refuse his companionship to the last. Guy 
Bolding, who had gone to take leave of his father, was to join 
me in town, as well as my humbler Cumberland colleagues. 

As my uncle and I were both of one mind upon the question 
of economy, we took up our quarters at a lodging-house in the 
City ; and there it was that I first made acquaintance with a 
part of London, of which few of my politer readers even pretend 
to be cognisant. I do not mean any sneer at the City itself, 
my dear alderman ; that jest is worn out. I am not alluding 
to streets, courts, and lanes ; what I mean may be seen at the 
West-end — not so well as at the East, but still seen very fairly 1 
I mean — the House-tops ! 


326 


THE CAXTONS : 


CHAPTER II 


BEING A CHAPTER ON HOUSE-TOPS 


house-tops ! what a soberising effect that prospect pro- 



duces on the mind. But a great many requisites go towards 
the selection of the right point of survey. It is not enough 
to secure a lodging in the attic ; you must not be fobbed off 
with a front attic that faces the street. First, your attic must 
be unequivocally a back attic ; secondly, the house in which 
it is located must be slightly elevated above its neighbours ; 
thirdly, the window must not lie slant on the roof, as is 
common with attics — in which case you only catch a peep of 
that leaden canopy which infatuated Londoners call the sky 
—but must be a window perpendicular, and not half blocked 
up by the parapets of that fosse called the gutter ; and, lastly, 
the sight must be so humoured that you cannot catch a glimpse 
of the pavements : if you once see the world beneath, the whole 
charm of that world above is destroyed. Taking it for granted 
that you have secured these requisites, open your window, lean 
your chin on both hands, the elbows propped commodiously 
on the sill, and contemplate the extraordinary scene which 
spreads before you. You find it difficult to believe life can be 
so tranquil on high, while it is so noisy and turbulent below. 
What astonishing stillness ! Eliot Warburton (seductive en- 
chanter !) recommends you to sail down the Nile if you want 
to lull the vexed spirit. It is easier and cheaper to hire an 
attic in Holborn ! You don’t have the crocodiles, but you 
have animals no less hallowed in Egypt — the cats ! And how 
harmoniously the tranquil creatures blend with the prospect 
— how noiselessly they glide along at the distance, pause, peer 
about, and disappear. It is only from the attic that you can 
appreciate the picturesque which belongs to our domesticated 
tigerkin ! The goat should be seen on the Alps, and the cat 
on the house-top. 

By degrees the curious eye takes the scenery in detail : and 
first, what fantastic variety in the heights and shapes of the 
chimney-pots ! Some all level in a row, uniform and respec- 
table, but quite uninteresting ; others, again, rising out of all 
proportion, and imperatively tasking the reason to conjecture 
why they are so aspiring. Reason answers that it is but a 


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327 


homely expedient to give freer vent to the smoke ; wherewith 
Imagination steps in, and represents to you all the fretting, and 
fuming, and worry, and care, which the owners of that chimney, 
now the tallest of all, endured, before, by building it higher, 
they got rid of the vapours. You see the distress of the cook, 
when the sooty invader rushed down, “ like a wolf on the fold,” 
full spring on the Sunday joint. You hear the exclamations 
of the mistress (perhaps a bride — house newly furnished) when, 
with white apron and cap, she ventured into the drawing-room, 
and was straightway saluted by a joyous dance of those monads, 
called vulgarly smuts. You feel manly indignation at the brute 
of a bridegroom, who rushes out from the door, with the smuts 
dancing after him, and swears, "Smoked out again! By the 
Arch-smoker himself ! I’ll go and dine at the club.” All 
this might well have been, till the chimney-pot was raised a 
few feet nearer heaven ; and now perhaps that long-suffering 
family owns the happiest home in the Row. Such contrivances 
to get rid of the smoke ! It is not every one who merely 
heightens his chimney ; others clap on the hollow tormentor 
all sorts of odd head-gear and cowls. Here, patent contriv- 
ances act the purpose of weathercocks, swaying to and fro 
with the wind ; there, others stand as fixed, as if, by a “ sic 
jubeo ,” they had settled the business. But of all those houses 
that, in the street, one passes by, unsuspicious of what’s the 
matter within, there is not one in a hundred but what there 
has been the devil to do, to cure the chimneys of smoking ! 
At that reflection. Philosophy dismisses the subject; and de- 
cides that, whether one lives in a hut or a palace, the first 
thing to do is to look to the hearth — and get rid of the 
vapours. 

New beauties demand us. What endless undulations in the 
various declivities and ascents ; here a slant, there a zig-zag ! 
With what majestic disdain yon roof rises up to the left ! 
Doubtless a palace of Genii or Gin (which last is the proper 
Arabic word for those builders of halls out of nothing, employed 
by Aladdin). Seeing only the roof of that palace boldly break- 
ing the sky-line — how serene your contemplations ! Perhaps a 
star twinkles over it, and you muse on soft eyes far away ; while 
below at the threshold — No, phantoms ! we see you not from 
our attic. Note, yonder, that precipitous fall — how ragged and 
jagged the roof-scene descends in a gorge. He who would 
travel on foot through the pass of that defile, of which we see 
but the picturesque summits, stops his nose, averts his eyes. 


328 


THE CAXTONS : 


guards his pockets, and hurries along through the squalor of the 
grim London lazzaroni. But, seen above, what a noble break in 
the sky-line ! It would be sacrilege to exchange that fine gorge 
for the dead flat of dull roof-tops. Look here — how delightful ! 
—that desolate house with no roof at all — gutted and skinned 
by the last London fire ! You can see the poor green-and-white 
paper still clinging to the walls, and the chasm that once was a 
cupboard, and the shadows gathering black on the aperture that 
once was a hearth ! Seen below, how quickly you would cross 
over the way ! That great crack forebodes an avalanche ; you 
hold your breath, not to bring it down on your head. But seen 
above, what a compassionate, inquisitive charm in the skeleton 
ruin ! How your fancy runs riot — repeopling the chambers, 
hearing the last cheerful good night of that destined Pompeii — 
creeping on tiptoe with the mother, when she gives her farewell 
look to the baby. Now all is midnight and silence ; then the 
red, crawling serpent comes out. Lo ! his breath ; hark ! his 
hiss. Now, spire after spire he winds and he coils ; now he 
soars up erect — crest superb, and forked tongue — the beautiful 
horror ! Then the start from the sleep, and the doubtful 
awaking, and the run here and there, and the mother’s rush to 
the cradle ; the cry from the window, and the knock at the 
door, and the spring of those on high towards the stair that 
leads to safety below, and the smoke rushing up like the surge 
of a hell ! And they run back stifled and blinded, and the floor 
heaves beneath them like a bark on the sea. Hark ! the grating 
wheels thundering low; near and nearer comes the engine. Fix 
the ladders ! — there ! there ! at the window, where the mother 
stands with the babe ! Splash and hiss comes the water ; pales, 
then flares out, the fire ; foe defies foe ; element, element. 
How sublime is the war ! But the ladder, the ladder ! — there, 
at the window ! All else are saved : the clerk and his books ! 
the lawyer with that tin box of title-deeds ; the landlord, with 
his policy of insurance ; the miser, with his bank-notes and gold : 
all are saved — all, but the babe and the mother. What a crowd 
in the streets ! how the light crimsons over the gazers, hundreds 
on hundreds ! All those faces seem as one face, with fear. Not 
a man mounts the ladder. Yes, there — gallant fellow ! God 
inspires — God shall speed thee ! How plainly I see him ! his 
eyes are closed, his teeth set. The serpent leaps up, the forked 
tongue darts upon him, and the reek of the breath wraps him 
round. The crowd has ebbed back like a sea, and 'the smoke 
rushes over them all Ha ! what dim forms are those on the 


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329 


ladder? Near and nearer — crash come the roof-tiles. Alas, 
and alas ! — no ! a cry of joy — a “ Thank Heaven ! ” and the 
women force their way through the men to come round the 
child and the mother. All is gone save that skeleton ruin. 
But the ruin is seen from above. O Art! study life from the 
roof-tops ! 


CHAPTER III 

WAS again foiled in seeing Trevanion. It was the Easter 
recess, and he was at the house of one of his brother 
ministers, somewhere in the north of England. But Lady 
Ellinor was in London, and I was ushered into her presence. 
Nothing could be more cordial than her manner, though she 
was evidently much depressed in spirits, and looked wan and 
careworn. 

After the kindest inquiries relative to my parents and the 
Captain, she entered with much sympathy into my schemes 
and plans, which she said Trevanion had confided to her. The 
sterling kindness that belonged to my old patron (despite his 
affected anger at my not accepting his proffered loan), had not 
only saved me and my fellow-adventurer all trouble as to allot- 
ment orders, but procured advice as to choice of site and soil, 
from the best practical experience, which we found afterwards 
exceedingly useful. And as Lady Ellinor gave me the little 
packet of papers, with Trevanion’s shrewd notes on the margin, 
she said with a half sigh, “Albert bids me say that he wishes 
he were as sanguine of his success in the Cabinet as of yours 
in the Bush.” She then turned to her husband’s rise and 
prospects, and her face began to change. Her eyes sparkled, 
the colour came to her cheeks — “But you are one of the few 
who know him,” she said, interrupting herself suddenly ; “ you 
know how he sacrifices all things — joy, leisure, health — to his 
country. There is not one selfish thought in his nature. And 
yet such envy — such obstacles still ! and ” (her eyes dropped on 
her dress, and I perceived that she was in mourning, though 
the mourning was not deep), “and,” she added, “it has pleased 
Heaven to withdraw from his side one who would have been 
worthy his alliance.” 

I felt for the proud woman, though her emotion seemed 
more that of pride than sorrow. And perhaps Lord Castleton’s 


330 


THE CAXTONS: 


highest merit in her eyes had been that of ministering to her 
husband’s power and her own ambition. I bowed my head in 
silence, and thought of Fanny. Did she, too, pine for the lost 
rank, or rather mourn the lost lover ? 

After a time, I said hesitatingly, “ I scarcely presume to 
condole with you. Lady Ellinor ! yet believe me, few things 
ever shocked me like the death you allude to. I trust Miss 
Trevanion’s health has not much suffered. Shall I not see her 
before I leave England ? ” 

Lady Ellinor fixed her keen bright eyes searchingly on my 
countenance, and perhaps the gaze satisfied her, for she held 
out her hand to me with a frankness almost tender, and said — 
“ Had I had a son, the dearest wish of my heart had been to 
see you wedded to my daughter.” 

I started up — the blood rushed to my cheeks, and then left 
me pale as death. I looked reproachfully at Lady Ellinor, and 
the word “ cruel ! ” faltered on my lips. 

“Yes,” continued Lady Ellinor mournfully, “that was my 
real thought, my impulse of regret, when I first saw you. But, 
as it is, do not think me too hard and worldly, if I quote the 
lofty old French proverb. Noblesse oblige. Listen to me, my 
young friend — we may never meet again, and I would not have 
your father’s son think unkindly of me, with all my faults. 
From my first childhood I was ambitious — not as women usually 
are, of mere wealth and rank — but ambitious as noble men are, 
of power and fame. A woman can only indulge such ambition 
by investing it in another. It was not wealth, it was not rank, 
that attracted me to Albert Trevanion : it was the nature that 
dispenses with the wealth, and commands the rank. Nay,” 
continued Lady Ellinor, in a voice that slightly trembled, “ I 
may have seen in my youth, before I knew Trevanion, one (she 
paused a moment, and went on hurriedly) — one who wanted 
but ambition to have realised my ideal. Perhaps, even when I 
married — and it was said for love — I loved less with my whole 
heart than with my whole mind. I may say this now, for now 
every beat of this pulse is wholly and only true to him with 
whom I have schemed, and toiled, and aspired ; with whom I 
have grown as one ; with whom I have shared the struggle, and 
now partake the triumph, realising the visions of my youth.” 

Again the light broke from the dark eyes of this grand 
daughter of the world, who was so superb a type of that moral 
contradiction — an ambitions woman. 

“ I cannot tell you,” resumed Lady Ellinor, softening, “ how 


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331 


pleased I was when you came to live with us. Your father has 
perhaps spoken to you of me, and of our first acquaintance ! ** 

Lady Ellinor paused abruptly, and surveyed me as she paused. 
I was silent. 

“ Perhaps, too, he has blamed me ? ” she resumed, with a 
heightened colour. 

“ He never blamed you, Lady Ellinor ! ” 

“ He had a right to do so — though I doubt if he would have 
blamed me on the true ground. Yet no; he never could have 
done me the wrong that your uncle did, when, long years ago, 
Mr. De Caxton in a letter — the very bitterness of which dis- 
armed all anger — accused me of having trifled with Austin — 
nay, with himself ! And he, at least, had no right to approach 
me,” continued Lady Ellinor warmly, and with a curve of her 
haughty lip ; “ for if I felt interest in his wild thirst for some 
romantic glory, it was but in the hope that, what made the one 
brother so restless might at least wake the other to the ambition 
that would have become his intellect, and aroused his energies. 
But these are old tales of follies and delusions now no more : 
only this w r ill I say, that I have ever felt, in thinking of your 
father, and even of your sterner uncle, as if my conscience re- 
minded me of a debt which I longed to discharge — if not to 
them, to their children. So, when we knew you, believe me, 
that your interests, your career, instantly became to me an 
object. But mistaking you — when I saw your ardent industry 
bent on serious objects, and accompanied by a mind so fresh 
and buoyant ; and, absorbed as I was in schemes or projects 
far beyond a woman’s ordinary province of hearth and home — 
I never dreamed, while you were our guest — never dreamed of 
danger to you or Fanny. I wound you — pardon me ; but I 
must vindicate myself. I repeat that, if we had a son to inherit 
our name, to bear the burden which the world lays upon those 
who are born to influence the world’s destinies, there is no one 
to whom Trevanion and myself would sooner have entrusted 
the happiness of a daughter. But my daughter is the sole 
representative of the mother’s line, of the father’s name : it is 
not her happiness alone that I have to consult, it is her duty — 
duty to her birthright, to the career of the noblest of England s 
patriots— duty, I may say, without exaggeration, to the country 
for the sake of which that career is run ! ” 

“ Say no more. Lady Ellinor; say no more. I understand 
you. I have no hope — I never had hope— it was a madness — it 
is over. It is but as a friend that I ask again, if I may see 


332 


THE CAXTONS: 


Miss Trevanion in your presence, before — before I go alone into 
this long exile, to leave, perhaps, my dust in a stranger’s soil ! 
Ay, look in my face — you cannot fear my resolution, my honour, 
my truth. But once, Lady Ellinor — but once more. Do I ask 
in vain ? ” 

Lady Ellinor was evidently much moved. I bent down 
almost in the attitude of kneeling ; and, brushing away her 
tears with one hand, she laid the other on my head tenderly, 
and said in a very low voice — 

“ I entreat you not to ask me ; I entreat you not to see my 
daughter. You have shown that you are not selfish — conquer 
yourself still. What if such an interview, however guarded you 
might be, were but to agitate, unnerve my child, unsettle her 
peace, prey upon ” 

“ Oh, do not speak thus — she did not share my feelings ! ” 

“ Could her mother own it if she did ! Come, come, re- 
member how young you both are. When you return, all these 
dreams will be forgotten ; then we can meet as before — then I 
will be your second mother, and again your career shall be my 
care ; for do not think that we shall leave you so long in this 
exile as you seem to forebode. No, no ; it is but an absence — • 
an excursion — not a search after fortune. Your fortune — leave 
that to us when you return ! ” 

“ And I am to see her no more ! ” I murmured, as I rose and 
went silently towards the window to conceal my face. The 
great struggles in life are limited moments. In the drooping of 
the head upon the bosom — in the pressure of the hand upon 
the brow — we may scarcely consume a second in our threescore 
years and ten ; but what revolutions of our whole being may 
pass within us, while that single sand drops noiseless down to 
the bottom of the hour-glass. 

I came back with firm step to Lady Ellinor, and said calmly, 
“ My reason tells me that you are right, and I submit. Forgive 
me ! and do not think me ungrateful and over-proud, if I add, 
that you must leave me still the object in life that consoles and 
encourages me through all.” 

“ What object is that ? ” asked Lady Ellinor hesitatingly. 

" Independence for myself, and ease to those for whom life is 
still sweet. This is my twofold object ; and the means to effect 
it must be my own heart and my own hands. And now, convey 
all my thanks to your noble husband, and accept my warm 
prayers for yourself and her — whom I will not name. Farewell, 
Lady Ellinor.” 
























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A FAMILY PICTURE 


333 


"No, do not leave me so hastily; I have many things to 
discuss with you — at least to ask of you. Tell me how your 
father bears his reverse ? — tell me, at least, if there be aught he 
will suffer us to do for him ? There are many appointments 
in Trevanion’s range of influence that would suit even the 
wilful indolence of a man of letters. Come, be frank with me ! ” 

I could not resist so much kindness ; so I sat down, and, as 
collectedly as I could, replied to Lady Ellinor’s questions, and 
sought to convince her that my father only felt his losses so far 
as they affected me, and that nothing in Trevanion’s power was 
likely to tempt him from his retreat, or calculated to compen- 
sate for a change in his habits. Turning at last from my parents. 
Lady Ellinor inquired for Roland, and, on learning that he was 
with me in town, expressed a strong desire to see him. I told her 
I would communicate her wish, and she then said thoughtfully — 

" He has a son, I think, and I have heard that there is some 
unhappy dissension between them.” 

"Who could have told you that?” I asked in surprise, 
knowing how closely Roland had kept the secret of his family 
afflictions. 

" Oh, I heard so from some one who knew Captain Roland — 
I forget when and where I heard it — but is it not the fact ? ” 

" My uncle Roland has no son.” 

" How ! ” 

" His son is dead.” 

" How such a loss must grieve him.” 

I did not speak. 

“ But is he sure that his son is dead ? What joy if he were 
mistaken — if the son yet lived ! ” 

" Nay, my uncle has a brave heart, and he is resigned ; — but, 
pardon me, have you heard anything of that son ? ” 

<< I J — what should I hear ? I would fain learn, however, from 
your uncle himself, what he might like to tell me of his sorrows 
— or if, indeed, there be any chance that ” 

" That — what ? ” 

"That — that his son still survives.” 

" I think not,” said I ; " and I doubt whether you will learn 
much from my uncle. Still there is something in your words 
that belies their apparent meaning, and makes me suspect that 
you know more than you will say.” 

"Diplomatist!” said Lady Ellinor, half smiling; but then, 
her face settling into a seriousness almost severe, she added — 
" It is terrible to think that a father should hate his son ! ” 


334 , 


THE CAXTONS : 


“ Hate ! — Roland hate his son ! What calumny is this ? ” 

“ He does not do so, then ! Assure me of that ; I shall be so 
glad to know that I have been misinformed.” 

“ I can tell you this, and no more — for no more do I know — 
that if ever the soul of a father were wrapt up in a son — fear, 
hope, gladness, sorrow, all reflected back on a father’s heart 
from the shadows on a son’s life — Roland was that father while 
the son lived still.” 

“ I cannot disbelieve you ! ” exclaimed Lady Ellinor, though 
in a tone of surprise. “Well, do let me see your uncle.” 

“ I will do my best to induce him to visit you, and learn all 
that you evidently conceal from me.” 

Lady Ellinor evasively replied to this insinuation, and shortly 
afterwards I left that house in which I had known the happiness 
that brings the folly, and the grief that bequeaths the wisdom. 


CHAPTER IV 

T HAD always felt a warm and almost filial affection for Lady 
Ellinor, independently of her relationship to Fanny, and of 
the gratitude with which her kindness inspired me ; for there is 
an affection very peculiar in its nature, and very high in its 
degree, which results from the blending of two sentiments not 
often allied, — viz., pity and admiration. It was impossible not 
to admire the rare gifts and great qualities of Lady Ellinor, and 
not to feel pity for the cares, anxieties, and sorrows which 
tormented one who, with all the sensitiveness of woman, went 
forth into the rough world of man. 

My father’s confession had somewhat impaired my esteem for 
Lady Ellinor, and had left on my mind the uneasy impression 
that she had trifled with his deep and Roland’s impetuous heart. 
The conversation that had just passed allowed me to judge her 
with more justice — allowed me to see that she had really shared 
the affection she had inspired in the student, but that ambition 
had been stronger than love — an ambition, it might be, irregular, 
and not strictly feminine, but still of no vulgar nor sordid ldnd. 
I gathered, too, from her hints and allusions, her true excuse 
for Roland’s misconception of her apparent interest in himself: 
she had but seen, in the wild energies of the elder brother, 
some agency by which to arouse the serener faculties of the 
younger. She had but sought, in the strange comet that flashed 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


335 


before her, to fix a lever that might move the star. Nor could 
I withhold my reverence from the woman who, not being married 
precisely from love, had no sooner linked her nature to one 
worthy of it, than her whole life became as fondly devoted to 
her husband’s as if he had been the object of her first romance 
and her earliest affections. If even her child was so secondary 
to her husband — if the fate of that child was but regarded by 
her as one to be rendered subservient to the grand destinies of 
Trevanion — still it was impossible to recognise the error of that 
conjugal devotion without admiring the wife, though one might 
condemn the mother. Turning from these meditations, I felt 
a lover’s thrill of selfish joy, amidst all the mournful sorrow 
comprised in the thought that I should see Fanny no more. 
Was it true, as Lady Ellinor implied, though delicately, that 
Fanny still cherished a remembrance of me — which a brief 
interview, a last farewell, might reawaken too dangerously for 
her peace? Well, that was a thought that it became me not 
to indulge. 

What could Lady Ellinor have heard of Roland and his son ? 
Was it possible that the lost lived still ? Asking myself these 
questions, I arrived at our lodgings, and saw the Captain himself 
before me, busied with the inspection of sundry specimens of 
the rude necessaries an Australian adventurer requires. There 
stood the old soldier, by the window, examining narrowly into 
the temper of hand-saw and tenon-saw, broad-axe and drawing- 
knife ; and as I came up to him, he looked at me from under 
his black brows, with gruff compassion, and said peevishly — 

“ Fine weapons these for the son of a gentleman ! — one bit of 
steel in the shape of a sword were worth them all.” 

“ Any weapon that conquers fate is noble in the hands of a 
brave man, uncle.” 

“ The boy has an answer for everything,” quoth the Captain, 
smiling, as he took out his purse and paid the shopman. 

When we were alone, I said to him — “ Uncle, you must go 
and see Lady Ellinor ; she desires me to tell you so.” 

“ Pshaw ! ” 

“ You will not ?” 

“No!” 

“Uncle, I think that she has something to say to you with 
regard to — to — pardon me ! — to my cousin.” 

“To Blanche ?” 

“ No, no — the cousin I never saw.” Roland turned pale, and 
sinking down on a chair, faltered out — “ To him — to my son ? ” 


336 


THE CAXTONS: 


" Yes ; but I do not think it is news that will afflict you. 
Uncle, are you sure that my cousin is dead ? ” 

" What ! — how dare you ! — who doubts it ? Dead — dead to 
me for ever ! Boy, would you have him to live to dishonour 
these grey hairs ? ” 

" Sir, sir, forgive me — uncle, forgive me : but, pray, go to see 
Lady Ellinor ; for whatever she has to say, I repeat that I am 
sure it will be nothing to wound you.” 

"Nothing to wound me — yet relate to him ! ” 

It is impossible to convey to the reader the despair that was 
in those words. 

" Perhaps,” said I, after a long pause, and in a low voice — for 
I was awe-stricken — "perhaps — if he be dead — he may have 
repented of all offence to you before he died.” 

" Repented — ha, ha ! ” 

" Or, if he be not dead ” 

" Hush, boy — hush ! ” 

"While there is life, there is hope of repentance.” 

" Look you, nephew,” said the Captain, rising and folding his 
arms resolutely on his breast — "look you, I desired that that name 
might never be breathed. I have not cursed my son yet ; could 
he come to life — the curse might fall ! You do not know what 
torture your words have given me,justwhen I had opened my heart 
to another son, and found that son in you. With respect to the 
lost, I have now but one prayer, and you knowit — the heart-broken 
prayer — that his name never more may come to my ears ! ” 

As he closed these words, to which I ventured no reply, the 
Captain took long, disordered strides across the room : and sud- 
denly, as if the space imprisoned, or the air stifled him, he seized 
his hat, and hastened into the streets. Recovering my surprise 
and dismay, I ran after him ; but he commanded me to leave him 
to his own thoughts, in a voice so stern, yet so sad, that I had 
no choice but to obey. I knew, by my own experience, how 
necessary is solitude in the moments when grief is strongest and 
thought most troubled. 


CHAPTER V 

TTOURS elapsed, and the Captain had not returned home. I 
began to feel uneasy, and went forth in search of him, 
though I knew not whither to direct my steps. I thought it, 
however, at least probable that he had not been able to resist 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


337 


visiting Lady Ellinor, so I went first to St. James’s Square. My 
suspicions were correct ; the Captain had been there two hours 
before. Lady Ellinor herself had gone out shortly after the 
Captain left. While the porter was giving me this information, 
a carriage stopped at the door, and a footman, stepping up, 
gave the porter a note and a small parcel, seemingly of books, 
saying simply, “ From the Marquis of Castleton.” At the 
sound of that name I turned hastily, and recognised Sir Sedley 
Beaudesert seated in the carriage, and looking out of the 
window with a dejected, moody expression of countenance, 
very different from his ordinary aspect, except when the rare 
sight of a grey hair or a twinge of the toothache reminded 
him that he was no longer twenty-five. Indeed, the change 
was so great that I exclaimed dubiously — “ Is that Sir Sedley 
Beaudesert ? ” The footman looked at me, and touching his 
hat said, with a condescending smile, — “Yes, sir — now the 
Marquis of Castleton.” 

Then, for the first time since the young lord’s death, I re- 
membered Sir Sedley’s expressions of gratitude to Lady Castle- 
ton, and the waters of Ems, for having saved him from “ that 
horrible marquisate.” Meanwhile, my old friend had perceived 
me, exclaiming — 

“ What ! Mr. Caxton ! I am delighted to see you. Open the 
door, Thomas. Pray come in, come in.” 

I obeyed ; and the new Lord Castleton made room for me by 
his side. 

“ Are you in a hurry ? ” said he ; “ if so, shall I take you any- 
where ? — if not, give me half-an-hour of your time, while I 
drive to the City.” 

As I knew not now in what direction, more than another, to 
prosecute my search for the Captain, and as I thought I might 
as well call at our lodgings to inquire if he had not returned, 
I answered that I should be very happy to accompany his 
lordship; “though the City,” said I, smiling, “sounds to me 
strange upon the lips of Sir Sedley — I beg pardon, I should 
say of Lord ” 

“ Don’t say any such thing ; let me once more hear the 
grateful sound of Sedley Beaudesert. Shut the door, Thomas ; 
to Gracechurch Street — Messrs. Fudge & Fidget.” 

The carriage drove on. 

“A sad affliction has befallen me,” said the marquis, “and 
none sympathise with me ! ” 

“Yet all, even unacquainted with the late lord, must have 

Y 


338 THE CAXTONS : 

felt shocked at the death of one so young, and so full of 
promise.” 

“So fitted in every way to bear the burthen of the great 
Castleton name and property — and yet you see it killed him ! — 
Ah ! if he had been but a simple gentleman, or if he had had 
a less conscientious desire to do his duties, he would have lived 
to a good old age. 1 know what it is already. Oh, if you saw 
the piles of letters on my table ! I positively dread the post. 
Such colossal improvement on the property which the poor boy 
had begun, for me to finish. What do you think takes me to 
Fudge & Fidget’s? Sir, they are the agents for an infernal 
coal-mine which my cousin had re-opened in Durham, to plague 
my life out with another thirty thousand pounds a year ! How 
am I to spend the money ? — how am I to spend it ? There’s a 
cold-blooded head steward, who says that charity is the greatest 
crime a man in high station can commit ; it demoralises the 
poor. Then, because some half-a-dozen farmers sent me a 
round-robin, to the effect that their rents were too high, and 
I wrote them word that the rents should be lowered, there was 
such a hullabaloo — you would have thought heaven and earth 
were coming together. f If a man in the position of the Marquis 
of Castleton set the example of letting land below its value, how 
could the poorer squires in the country exist ? — or if they did 
exist, what injustice to expose them to the charge that they 
were grasping landlords, vampires, and bloodsuckers ! Clearly if 
Lord Castleton lowered his rents (they were too low already), 
he struck a mortal blow at the property of his neighbours, if 
they followed his example : or at their characters if they did 
not.’ No man can tell how hard it is to do good, unless fortune 
gives him a hundred thousand pounds a year, and says — f Now, 
do good with it ! ’ Sedley Beaudesert might follow his whims, 
and all that would be said against him was, * good-natured, 
simple fellow ! ’ But if Lord Castleton follow his whims, you 
would think he was a second Catiline — unsettling the peace, 
and undermining the prosperity, of the entire nation ! ” Here 
the wretched man paused, and sighed heavily ; then, as his 
thoughts wandered into a new channel of woe, he resumed, — 
“ Ah ! if you could but see the forlorn great house I am ex- 
pected to inhabit, cooped up between dead walls, instead of 
my pretty rooms, with the windows full on the park ; and the 
balls I am expected to give, and the parliamentary interest I 
am to keep up : and the villainous proposal made to me to 
become a lord-steward or lord-chamberlain, because it suits 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


339 


my rank to be a sort of a servant. O Pisistratus ! you lucky 
dog — not twenty-one, and with, I dare say, not two hundred 
pounds a year in the world ! ” 

Thus bemoaning and bewailing his sad fortunes, the poor 
marquis ran on, till at last he exclaimed, in a tone of yet deeper 
despair — 

“ And everybody says I must marry, too ! — that the Castleton 
line must not be extinct ! The Beaudeserts are a good old 
family eno’ — as old, for what I know, as the Castletons ; but 
the British empire would suffer no loss if they sunk into the 
tomb of the Capulets. But that the Castleton peerage should 
expire, is a thought of crime and woe, at which all the mothers 
of England rise in a phalanx ! And so, instead of visiting the 
sins of the fathers on the sons, it is the father that is to be 
sacrificed for the benefit of the third and fourth generation ! ” 

Despite my causes for seriousness, I could not help laughing ; 
my companion turned on me a look of reproach. 

" At least,” said I,, composing my countenance, " Lord Castle- 
ton has one comfort in his afflictions — if he must marry, he may 
choose as he pleases.” 

" That is precisely what Sedley Beaudesert could, and Lord 
Castleton cannot do,” said the marquis gravely. " The rank of 
Sir Sedley Beaudesert was a quiet and comfortable rank — he 
might marry a curate’s daughter, or a duke’s — and please his 
eye or grieve his heart as the caprice took him. But Lord 
Castleton must marry, not for a wife, but for a marchioness, — 
marry some one who will wear his rank for him, — take the 
trouble of splendour off his hands, and allow him to retire into 
a corner, and dream that he is Sedley Beaudesert once morel 
Yes, it must be so — the crowning sacrifice must be completed 
at the altar. But a truce to my complaints. Trevanion informs 
me you are going to Australia, — can that be true ? ” 

" Perfectly true.” 

" They say there is a sad want of ladies there.” 

" So much the better, — 1 shall be all the more steady.” 

"Well, there’s something in that. Have you seen Lady 
Ellinor ? ” 

"Yes — this morning.” 

" Poor woman ! — a great blow to her — we have tried to console 
each other. Fanny, you know, is staying at Oxton, in Surrey, 
with Lady Castleton — the poor lady is so fond of her — and no 
one has comforted her like Fanny.” 

" I was not aware that Miss Trevanion was out of town.” 


340 


THE CAXTONS : 


“Only for a few days, and then she and Lady Ellinor join 

Trevanion in the north — you know he is with Lord N , 

settling measures on which — but alas ! they consult me now on 
those matters — force their secrets on me. I have, Heaven 
knows how many votes ! Poor me ! Upon my word, if Lady 
Ellinor was a widow, I should certainly make up to her ; very 
clever woman, nothing bores her.” (The marquis yawned — 
Sir Sedley Beaudesert never yawned.) “Trevanion has pro- 
vided for his Scotch secretary, and is about to get a place in the 
Foreign Office for that young fellow Gower, whom, between you 
and me, I don’t like. But he has bewitched Trevanion ! ” 

“ What sort of a person is this Mr. Gower ? — I remember you 
said that he was clever, and good-looking.” 

“ He is both, but it is not the cleverness of youth ; he is as 
hard and sarcastic as if he had been cheated fifty times, and 
jilted a hundred ! Neither are his good looks that letter of 
recommendation which a handsome face is said to be. He has 
an expression of countenance very much like that of Lord Hert- 
ford’s pet bloodhound, when a stranger comes into the room. 
Very sleek, handsome dog, the bloodhound is certainly — well- 
mannered, and I dare say exceedingly tame ; but still you have 
but to look at the corner of the eye, to know that it is only 
the habit of the drawing-room that suppresses the creature’s 
constitutional tendency to seize you by the throat, instead of 
giving you a paw. Still this Mr. Gower has a very striking 
head — something about it Moorish or Spanish, like a picture by 
Murillo : I half suspect that he is less a Gower than a gipsy ! ” 

“ What ! ” — I cried, as I listened with rapt and breathless 
attention to this description. “ He is then very dark, with high 
narrow forehead, features slightly aquiline, but very delicate, 
and teeth so dazzling that the whole face seems to sparkle when 
he smiles — though it is only the lip that smiles, not the eye.” 

“ Exactly as you say ; you have seen him, then ? ” 

“ Why, I am not sure, since you say his name is Gower.” 

“ He says his name is Gower,” returned Lord Castleton dryly, 
as he inhaled the Beaudesert mixture. 

“And where is he now ? — with Mr. Trevanion ?” 

“Yes, I believe so. Ah! here we are — Fudge & Fidget! 
But, perhaps,” added Lord Castleton, with a gleam of hope in 
his blue eye — “ perhaps they are not at home ! ” 

Alas ! that was an illusive “ imagining,” as the poets of the 
nineteenth century unaffectedly express themselves. Messrs. 
Fudge & Fidget were never out to such clients as the Marquis 


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341 


of Castleton : with a deep sigh, and an altered expression of 
face, the Victim of Fortune slowly descended the steps of the 
carriage. 

“ I can’t ask you to wait for me,” said he : “ Heaven only 
knows how long I shall be kept ! Take the carriage where you 
will, and send it back to me.” 

“ A thousand thanks, my dear lord, I would rather walk — but 
you will let me call on you before I leave town.” 

“ Let you ! — I insist on it. I am still at the old quarters — 
under pretence,” said the marquis, with a sly twinkle of the 
eyelid, “ that Castleton House wants painting ! ” 

“ At twelve to-morrow, then ? ” 

“ Twelve to-morrow. Alas! that’s just the hour at which 
Mr. Screw, the agent for the London property (two squares, 
seven streets, and a lane !) is to call.” 

“ Perhaps two o’clock will suit you better ! ” 

“Two! just the hour at which Mr. Plausible, one of the 
Castleton members, insists upon telling me why his conscience 
will not let him vote with Trevanion ! ” 

“ Three o’clock ? ” 

“Three! — just the hour at which I am to see the Secretary 
of the Treasury, who has promised to relieve Mr. Plausible’s 
conscience ! But come and dine with me — you will meet the 
executors to the will ! ” 

“Nay, Sir Sedley — that is, my dear lord — I will take my 
chance, and look in after dinner.” 

“ Do so ; my guests are not lively ! What a firm step the 
rogue has ! Only twenty, I think — twenty ! and not an acre of 
property to plague him ! ” So saying, the marquis dolorously 
shook his head, and vanished through the noiseless mahogany 
doors, behind which Messrs. Fudge & Fidget awaited the un- 
happy man, — with the accounts of the Great Castleton coal- 
mine. 


CHAPTER VI 


/^AN my way towards our lodgings, I resolved to look in at a 
^ humble tavern, in the coffee-room of which the Captain and 
myself habitually dined. It was now about the usual hour in 
which we took that meal, and he might be there waiting for 
me. I had just gained the steps of this tavern, when a stage- 
coach came rattling along the pavement, and drew up at an 


34-2 


THE CAXTONS: 


inn of more pretensions than that which we favoured, situated 
within a few doors of the latter. As the coach stopped, my eye 
was caught by the Trevanion livery, which was very peculiar. 
Thinking I must be deceived, I drew near to the wearer of the 
livery, who had just descended from the roof, and while he paid 
the coachman, gave his orders to a waiter who emerged from 
the inn — “ Half-and-half, cold without ! ” The tone of the 
voice struck me as familiar, and the man now looking up, I 
beheld the features of Mr. Peacock. Yes, unquestionably it 
was he. The whiskers were shaved — there were traces of 
powder in the hair or the wig — the livery of the Trevanions 
(ay, the very livery — crest-button, and all) upon that portly 
figure, which I had last seen in the more august robes of a 
beadle. But Mr. Peacock it was — Peacock travestied, but 
Peacock still. Before I had recovered my amaze, a woman got 
out of a cabriolet, that seemed to have been in waiting for the 
arrival of the coach, and, hurrying up to Mr. Peacock, said in 
the loud impatient tone common to the fairest of the fair sex, 
when in haste — “ How late you are ! — I was just going. I must 
get back to Oxton to-night.” 

Oxton — -Miss Trevanion was staying at Oxton ! I was now 
close behind the pair — I listened with my heart in my ear. 

“So you shall, my dear — so you shall; just come in, will 
you.” 

“ No, no ; I have only ten minutes to catch the coach. Have 
you any letter for me from Mr. Gower ? How can I be sure, if 
I don’t see it under his own hand, that ” 

“ Hush ! ” said Peacock, sinking his voice so low that I could 
only catch the words, “no names — letter, pooh. I’ll tell you.” 
He then drew her apart, and whispered to her for some 
moments. I watched the woman’s face, which was bent towards 
her companion’s, and it seemed to show quick intelligence. She 
nodded her head more than once, as if in impatient assent to 
what was said ; and, after a shaking of hands, hurried off to 
the cab; then, as if a thought struck her, she ran back, and 
said — 

“ But in case my lady should not go — if there’s any change of 
plan.” 

“ There’ll be no change, you may be sure — positively to- 
morrow — not too early ; you understand ? ” 

“Yes, yes ; good-bye” — and the woman, who was dressed with 
a quiet neatness, that seemed to stamp her profession as that 
of an abigail (black cloak with long cape — of that peculiar silk 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


343 


which seems spun on purpose for ladies’-maids — bonnet to match, 
with red and black ribbons), hastened once more away, and in 
another moment the cab drove off furiously. 

What could all this mean ? By this time the waiter brought 
Mr. Peacock the half-and-half. He despatched it hastily, and 
then strode on towards a neighbouring stand of cabriolets. I 
followed him ; and just as, after beckoning one of the vehicles 
from the stand, he had ensconed himself therein, I sprang up 
the steps and placed myself by his side. “ Now, Mr. Peacock,” 
said I, “you will tell me at once how you come to wear that 
livery, or I shall order the cabman to drive to Lady Ellinor 
Trevanion’s, and ask her that question myself.” 

“And who the devil ! — Ah, you’re the young gentleman that 
came to me behind the scenes — I remember.” 

“ Where to, sir ? ” asked the cabman. 

“To — to London Bridge,” said Mr. Peacock. 

The man mounted the box, and drove on. 

“Well, Mr. Peacock, I wait your answer. I guess by your 
face that you are about to tell me a lie ; I advise you to speak 
the truth.” 

“ I don’t know what business you have to question me,” said 
Mr. Peacock sullenly ; and raising his glance from his own 
clenched fists, he suffered it to wander over my form with so 
vindictive a significance, that I interrupted the survey by 
saying, “ f Will you encounter the house ? ’ as the Swan in- 
terrogatively puts it — shall I order the cabman to drive to 
St. James’s Square?” 

“Oh, you know my weak point, sir? any man who can quote 
Will — sweet Will — has me on the hip,” rejoined Mr. Peacock, 
smoothing his countenance, and spreading his palms on his 
knees. But if a man does fall in the world, and, after keeping 
servants of his own, is obliged to be himself a servant, 

‘ I will not shame 

To tell you what I am. ’ ” 

“ The Swan says, f To tell you what I was,’ Mr. Peacock. But 
enough of this trifling; who placed you with Mr. Trevanion?” 

Mr. Peacock looked down for a moment, and then fixing his 
eyes on me, said — •“ Well, I’ll tell you : you asked me, when we 
met last, about a young gentleman — Mr. — Mr. Vivian.” 

Pisistratus. — “ Proceed.” 

Peacock. — “ I know you don’t want to harm him. Besides, 


3 44 


THE CAXTONS : 


‘ He hath a prosperous art/ and one day or other, — mark my 
words, or rather my friend Will’s — 

‘ He will bestride this narrow world 
Like a Colossus.’ 

Upon my life he will — like a Colossus, 

‘And we petty men ’ ” 

Pisistratus (savagely). — “ Go on with your story.” 

Peacock (snappishly). — “ I am going on with it ! You put 
me out; where was 1 — oh — ah — yes. I had just been sold up 
— not a penny in my pocket ; and if you could have seen my 
coat — yet that was better than the small-clothes ! Well, it was 
in Oxford Street — no, it was in the Strand, near the Lowther — 

‘ The sun was in the heavens and the proud day 
Attended with the pleasures of the world.’ ” 

Pisistratus (lowering the glass). — “ To St. James’s Square ? ” 

Peacock. — “ No, no; to London Bridge. 

‘ How use doth breed a habit in a man ! * 

I will go on — honour bright. So I met Mr. Vivian, and as he 
had known me in better days, and has a good heart of his own, 
he says — 

‘Horatio, — or I do forget myself.’ ” 

Pisistratus puts his hand on the check-string. 

Peacock (correcting himself). — “ I mean — ‘ Why, Johnson, my 
good fellow.’ ” 

Pisistratus. — “ Johnson! — oh, that’s your name — not Pea- 
cock.” 

Peacock. — “ Johnson and Peacock both (with dignity). 
When you know the world as I do, sir, you will find that it is 
ill travelling this ‘ naughty world ’ without a change of names 
in your portmanteau. 

“‘Johnson,’ says he, ‘my good fellow,’ and he pulled out his 
purse. ‘ Sir/ said I, ‘ if, “ exempt from public haunt,” I could 
get something to do when this dross is gone. In London there 
are sermons in stones, certainly, but not “ good in everything,” 
an observation I should take the liberty of making to the Swan, 
if he were not now, alas ! “the baseless fabric of a vision.” ’ ” 

Pisistratus. — “Take care !” 

Peacock (hurriedly). — “Then says Mr. Vivian, ‘If you don’t 
mind wearing a livery, till I can provide for you more suitably. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


345 


my old friend, there’s a vacancy in the establishment of Mr. 
Trevanion.’ Sir, I accepted the proposal, and that’s why I wear 
this livery.” 

Pisistratus. — “ And pray, what business had you with that 
young woman, whom I take to be Miss Trevanion’s maid ? and 
why should she come from Oxton to see you ? ” 

I had expected that these questions would confound Mr. 
Peacock ! but if there really were anything in them to cause 
embarrassment, the ci-devant actor was too practised in his pro- 
fession to exhibit it. He merely smiled, and smoothing jauntily 
a very tumbled shirt front, he said, “ Oh, sir, fie ! 

‘ Of this matter 

Is little Cupid’s crafty arrow made.’ 

If you must know my love affairs, that young woman is, as the 
vulgar say, my sweetheart.” 

“ Your sweetheart ! ” I exclaimed, greatly relieved, and ac- 
knowledging at once the probability of the statement. “ Yet,” 
I added suspiciously — “yet, if so, why should she expect Mr. 
Gower to write to her ? ” 

“ You’re quick of hearing, sir ; but though 

‘ All adoration, duty, and observance : 

All humbleness, and patience, and impatience,’ 

the young woman won’t marry a livery servant — proud creature ! 
—very proud ! and Mr. Gower, you see, knowing how it was, 
felt for me, and told her, if I may take such liberty with the 
Swan, that she should 

‘ Never lie by Johnson’s side 

With an unquiet soul,’ 

for that he would get me a place in the Stamps ! The silly girl 
said she would have it in black and white — as if Mr. Gower 
would write to her ! 

“And now, sir,” continued Mr. Peacock, with a simpler 
gravity, “ you are at liberty, of course, to say what you please to 
my lady, but I hope you’ll not try to take the bread out of my 
mouth because I wear a livery, and am fool enough to be in love 
with a waiting-woman — I, sir, who could have married ladies who 
have played the first parts in life — on the metropolitan stage.” 

I had nothing to say to these representations — they seemed 
plausible ; and though at first I had suspected that the man had 
only resorted to the buffoonery of his quotations in order to gain 


346 


THE CAXTONS : 


time for invention, or to divert my notice from any flaw in his 
narrative, yet at the close, as the narrative seemed probable, so 
I was willing to believe the buffoonery was merely characteristic. 
I contented myself, therefore, with asking — 

“ Where do you come from now ? ” 

“From Mr. Trevanion, in the country, with letters to Lady 
Ellinor.” 

“ Oh ! and so the young woman knew you were coming to 
town ? ” 

“Yes, sir; Mr. Trevanion told me, some days ago, the day I 
should have to start.” 

“And what do you and the young woman propose doing 
to-morrow, if there is no change of plan ? ” 

Here I certainly thought there was a slight, scarce percep- 
tible, alteration in Mr. Peacock’s countenance, but he answered 
readily, “To-morrow, a little assignation, if we can both get 
out — 

‘ Woo me, now I am in a holiday humour, 

And like enough to consent. ’ 

Swan again, sir.” 

“ Humph ! — so then Mr. Gower and Mr. Vivian are the same 
person ? ” 

Peacock hesitated. “ That’s not my secret, sir ; ‘ I am com- 
bined by a sacred vow.’ You are too much the gentleman 
to peep through the blanket of the dark, and to ask me, who 
wear the whips and stripes — I mean the plush small-clothes 
and shoulder-knots — the secrets of another gent, to whom ‘ my 
services are bound.’ ” 

How a man past thirty foils a man scarcely twenty ! — what 
superiority the mere fact of living-on gives to the dullest dog ! 
I bit my lip and was silent. 

“ And,” pursued Mr. Peacock, “ if you knew how the Mr. 
Vivian you inquired after loves you ! When I told him inci- 
dentally, how a young gentleman had come behind the scenes 
to inquire after him, he made me describe you, and then said, 
quite mournfully, f If ever I am what I hope to become, how 
happy I shall be to shake that kind hand once more,’ — very 
words, sir ! — honour bright ! 

* I think there’s ne’er a man in Christendom 
Can lesser hide his hate or love than he. ’ 

And if Mr. Vivian has some reason to keep himself concealed 
still — if his fortune or ruin depend on your not divulging his 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


347 


secret for a while — I can’t think you are the man he need fear. 
’Pon my life — - 

‘ I wish I was as sure of a good dinner,’ 

as the Swan touchingly exclaims. I dare swear that was a 
wish often on the Swan’s lips in the privacy of his domestic 
life ! ” 

My heart was softened, not by the pathos of the much pro- 
faned and desecrated Swan, but by Mr. Peacock’s unadorned 
repetition of Vivian’s words ; I turned my face from the sharp 
eyes of my companion — the cab now stopped at the foot of 
London Bridge. 

I had no more to ask, yet still there was some uneasy 
curiosity in my mind, which I could hardly define to myself, 
— was it not jealousy ? Vivian so handsome and so daring — 
he at least might see the great heiress ; Lady Ellinor perhaps 
thought of no danger there. But — I — I was a lover still, and 
— nay, such thoughts were folly indeed ! 

“ My man,” said I to the ex-comedian, “ I neither wish to 
harm Mr. Vivian (if I am so to call him), nor you who imitate 
him in the variety of your names. But I tell you fairly, that 
I do not like your being in Mr. Trevanion’s employment, and 
I advise you to get out of it as soon as possible. I say nothing 
more as yet, for I shall take time to consider well what you 
have told me.” 

With that I hastened away, and Mr. Peacock continued his 
solitary journey over London Bridge. 


CHAPTER VII 

AMIDST all that lacerated my heart, or tormented my thoughts, 
^ that eventful day, I felt at least one joyous emotion, when, 
on entering our little drawing-room, I found my uncle seated 
there. 

The Captain had placed before him on the table a large 
Bible, borrowed from the landlady. He never travelled, to 
be sure, without his own Bible, but the print of that was 
small, and the Captain’s eyes began to fail him at night. So 
this was a Bible with large type ; and a candle was placed 
on either side of it ; and the Captain leant his elbows on the 
table, and both his hands were tightly clasped upon his fore- 


348 THE CAXTONS : 

head — tightly, as if to shut out the tempter, and force his whole 
soul upon the page. 

He sat the image of iron courage ; in every line of that rigid 
form there was resolution. “ I will not listen to my heart ; I 
will read the Book, and learn to suffer as becomes a Christian 
man.” 

There was such a pathos in the stern sufferer’s attitude, that 
it spoke those words as plainly as if his lips had said them. 

Old soldier ! thou hast done a soldier’s part in many a bloody 
field ; but if I could make visible to the world thy brave soldier’s 
soul, I would paint thee as I saw thee then ! — Out on this tyro’s 
hand ! 

At the movement I made, the Captain looked up, and the 
strife he had gone through was written upon his face. 

“ It has done me good,” said he simply, and he closed the 
book. 

I drew my chair near to him, and hung my arm over his 
shoulder. 

“ No cheering news, then ? ” asked I in a whisper. 

Roland shook his head, and gently laid his finger on his lips. 


CHAPTER VIII 

TT was impossible for me to intrude upon Roland’s thoughts, 

whatever their nature, with a detail of those circumstances 
which had aroused in me a keen and anxious interest in things 
apart from his sorrow. 

Yet as “ restless I roll’d around my weary bed,” and re- 
volved the renewal of Vivian’s connection with a man of 
character so equivocal as Peacock, the establishment of an 
able and unscrupulous tool of his own in the service of Tre- 
vanion, the care with which he had concealed from me his 
change of name, and his intimacy at the very house to which 
I had frankly offered to present him ; the familiarity which 
his creature had contrived to effect with Miss Trevanion’s maid, 
the words that had passed between them — plausibly accounted 
for, it is true, yet still suspicious — and, above all, my painful 
recollections of Vivian’s reckless ambition and unprincipled 
sentiments — nay, the effect that a few random words upon 
Fanny’s fortune, and the luck of winning an heiress, had 
sufficed to produce upon his heated fancy and audacious temper ; 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


34-9 


when all these thoughts came upon me, strong and vivid, in 
the darkness of night, I longed for some confidant, more ex- 
perienced in the world than myself, to advise me as to the 
course I ought to pursue. Should I warn Lady Ellinor ? But 
of what ? — the character of a servant, or the designs of the 
fictitious Gower ? Against the first I could say, if nothing very 
positive, still enough to make it prudent to dismiss him. But 
of Gower or Vivian, what could I say without — not indeed 
betraying his confidence, for that he had never given me — 
but without belying the professions of friendship that I myself 
had lavishly made to him ? Perhaps, after all, he might have 
disclosed whatever were his real secrets to Trevanion ; and, if 
not, I might indeed ruin his prospects by revealing the aliases 
he assumed. But wherefore reveal, and wherefore warn ? 
Because of suspicions that I could not myself analyse — sus- 
picions founded on circumstances most of which had already 
been seemingly explained away. Still, when morning came, 
I was irresolute what to do ; and after watching Roland’s 
countenance, and seeing on his brow so great a weight of care, 
that I had no option but to postpone the confidence I pined to 
place in his strong understanding and unerring sense of honour, 
I wandered out, hoping that in the fresh air I might recollect 
my thoughts, and solve the problem that perplexed me. I had 
enough to do in sundry small orders for my voyage, and com- 
missions for Bolding, to occupy me some hours. And, this 
business done, I found myself moving westward : mechanically, 
as it were, I had come to a kind of half-and-half resolution to 
call upon Lady Ellinor, and question her, carelessly and inci- 
dentally, both about Gower and the new servant admitted to 
the household. 

Thus I found myself in Regent Street, when a carriage, borne 
by post-horses, whirled rapidly over the pavement — scattering 
to the right and left all humbler equipages — and hurried, as 
if on an errand of life and death, up the broad thoroughfare 
leading into Portland Place. But, rapidly as the wheels dashed 
by, I had seen distinctly the face of Fanny Trevanion in the car- 
riage, and that face wore a strange expression, which seemed to 
me to speak of anxiety and grief ; and by her side — was not that 
the woman I had seen with Peacock ? I did not see the face 
of the woman, but I thought I recognised the cloak, the bonnet, 
and peculiar turn of the head. If I could be mistaken there, I 
was not mistaken at least as to the servant on the seat behind. 
Looking back at a butcher’s boy, who had just escaped being 


350 


THE CAXTONS : 


run over, and was revenging himself by all the imprecations the 
Dirae of London slang could suggest, the face of Mr. Peacock 
was exposed in full to my gaze. 

My first impulse, on recovering my surprise, was to spring 
after the carriage ; in the haste of that impulse, I cried “ Stop ! ” 
But the carriage was out of sight in a moment, and my word 
was lost in air. Full of presentiments of some evil — I knew not 
what — I then altered my course, and stopped not, till I found 
myself panting and out of breath, in St. James’s Square — at 
the door of Trevanion’s house — in the hall. The porter had a 
newspaper in his hand as he admitted me. 

" Where is Lady Ellinor ? — I must see her instantly.” 

“ No worse news of master, I hope, sir ? ” 

“ Worse news of what ? — of whom ?— of Mr. Trevanion ? ” 

“ Did you not know he was suddenly taken ill, sir ; that a 
servant came express to say so last night ? Lady Ellinor went 
off at ten o’clock to join him.” 

“ At ten o’clock last night ? ” 

“Yes, sir; the servant’s account alarmed her ladyship so 
much.” 

“The new servant, who had been recommended by Mr. 
Gower ? ” 

“Yes, sir — Henry,” answered the porter, staring at me. 
“ Please, sir, here is an account of master’s attack in the paper. 
I suppose Henry took it to the office before he came here, 
which was very wrong in him ; but I am afraid he’s a very 
foolish fellow.” 

“Never mind that. Miss Trevanion — I saw her just now — • 
she did not go with her mother ; where was she going, then ? ” 

“ Why, sir — but pray step into the parlour.” 

“ No, no — speak ! ” 

“ Why, sir, before Lady Ellinor set out, she was afraid that 
there might be something in the papers to alarm Miss Fanny, 
and so she sent Henry down to Lady Castleton’s, to beg her 
ladyship to make as light of it as she could ; but it seems that 
Henry blabbed the worst to Mrs. Mole.” 

“ Who is Mrs. Mole ? ” 

“Miss Trevanion’s maid, sir — a new maid; and Mrs. Mole 
blabbed to my young lady, and so she took fright, and insisted 
on coming to town. And Lady Castleton, who is ill herself in 
bed, could not keep her, I suppose, — especially as Henry said, 
though he ought to have known better, ‘that she would be in 
time to arrive before my lady set off.’ Poor Miss Trevanion 


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351 


was so disappointed when she found her mamma gone. And 
then she would order fresh horses, and would go on, though 
Mrs. Bates (the housekeeper, you know, sir) was very angry 

with Mrs. Mole, who encouraged Miss ; and ” 

“ Good heavens ! Why did not Mrs. Bates go with her ? ” 
“Why, sir, you know how old Mrs. Bates is, and my young 
lady is always so kind that she would not hear of it, as she 
is going to travel night and day ; and Mrs. Mole said she had 

gone all over the world with her last lady, and that ” 

“ I see it all. Where is Mr. Gower ? ” 

“ Mr. Gower, sir ! ” 

“ Yes ! Can’t you answer ? ” 

“ Why, with Mr. Trevanion, I believe, sir.” 

“ In the north — what is the address ?” 

“ Lord N , C Hall, near W ” 

I heard no more. 

The conviction of some villainous snare struck me as with 
the swiftness and force of lightning. Why, if Trevanion were 
really ill, had the false servant concealed it from me ? Why 
suffered me to waste his time, instead of hastening to Lady 
Ellinor? How, if Mr. Trevanion’s sudden illness had brought 
the man to London — how had he known so long beforehand (as 
he himself told me, and his appointment with the waiting- 
woman proved) the day he should arrive ? Why now, if there 
were no design of which Miss Trevanion was the object — why 
so frustrate the provident foresight of her mother, and take 
advantage of the natural yearning of affection, the quick impulse 
of youth, to hurry off a girl whose very station forbade her to 
take such a journey without suitable protection — against what 
must be the wish, and what clearly were the instructions, of 
Lady Ellinor ? Alone, worse than alone ! Fanny Trevanion 
was then in the hands of two servants, who were the instru- 
ments and confidants of an adventurer like Vivian ; and that 
conference between those servants — those broken references to 
the morrow, coupled with the name Vivian had assumed : 
needed the unerring instincts of love more cause for terror? — 
terror the darker, because the exact shape it should assume was 
obscure and indistinct. 

I sprang from the house. 

I hastened into the Haymarket, summoned a cabriolet, drove 
home as fast as I could (for I had no money about me for the 
journey I meditated) ; sent the servant of the lodging to engage 
a chaise-and-four, rushed into the room, where Roland fortu- 


352 


THE CAXTONS : 


nately still was, and exclaimed — “ Uncle, come with me ! — take 
money, plenty of money ! — some villainy I know, though 1 
can’t explain it, has been practised on the Trevanions. We 
may defeat it yet. I will tell you all by the way — come, 

t » 

come I 

" Certainly. But villainy ! — and to people of such a station — 
pooh ! — collect yourself. Who is the villain ? ” 

“ Oh, the man I had loved as a friend — the man whom I 
myself helped to make known to Trevanion — Vivian — Vivian !” 

“ Vivian ! — ah, the youth I have heard you speak of. But 
how ? — villainy to whom— to Trevanion ? ” 

“You torture me with your questions. Listen — this Vivian (I 
know him) — he has introduced into the house, as a servant, an 
agent capable of any trick and fraud ; that servant has aided 
him to win over her maid — Fanny’s — Miss Trevanion’s. Miss 
Trevanion is an heiress, Vivian an adventurer. My head swims 
round, I cannot explain now. Ha ! I will write a line to Lord 
Castleton — tell him my fears and suspicions — he will follow us, 
I know, or do what is best.” 

I drew ink and paper towards me, and wrote hastily. My 
uncle came round and looked over my shoulder. 

Suddenly he exclaimed, seizing my arm, “ Gower, Gower ! 
What name is this? You said Vivian.” 

“ Vivian or Gower — the same person.” 

My uncle hurried out of the room. It was natural that he 
should leave me to make our joint and brief preparations for 
departure. 

I finished my letter, sealed it, and when, five minutes after- 
wards, the chaise came to the door, I gave it to the ostler who 
accompanied the horses, with injunctions to deliver it forthwith 
to Lord Castleton himself. 

My uncle now descended, and stepped from the threshold 
with a firm stride. “ Comfort yourself,” he said, as he entered 
the chaise, into which I had already thrown myself. “ We may 
be mistaken yet.” 

“ Mistaken ! You do not know this young man. He has 
every quality that could entangle a girl like Fanny, and not, 
I fear, one sentiment of honour, that would stand in the way 
of his ambition. I judge him now as by a revelation — too late 
— oh heavens, if it be too late.” 

A groan broke from Roland’s lips. I heard in it a proof of 
his sympathy with my emotion, and grasped his hand ; it was as 
cold as the hand of the dead. 


PART XV 


CHAPTER I 


T^HERE wouid have been nothing in what had chanced to 
justify the suspicions that tortured me, but for my impres- 
sions as to the character of Vivian. 

Reader, hast thou not, in the easy, careless sociability of 
youth, formed acquaintance with some one, in whose more 
engaging or brilliant qualities thou hast — not lost that dislike to 
defects or vices which is natural to an age when, even while 
we err, we adore what is good, and glow with enthusiasm for the 
ennobling sentiment and the virtuous deed — no, happily, not 
lost dislike to what is bad, nor thy quick sense of it — but con- 
ceived a keen interest in the struggle between the bad that 
revolted, and the good that attracted thee, in thy companion ? 
Then, perhaps, thou hast lost sight of him for a time — suddenly 
thou hearest that he has done something out of the way of 
ordinary good or commonplace evil ! and, in either — the good or 
the evil — thy mind runs rapidly back over its old reminiscences, 
and of either thou sayest, “ How natural ! — only So-and-so could 
have done this thing ! ” 

Thus I felt respecting Vivian. The most remarkable qualities 
in his character were his keen power of calculation, and his 
unhesitating audacity — qualities that lead to fame or to infamy, 
according to the cultivation of the moral sense and the direction 
of the passions. Had I recognised those qualities in some agency 
apparently of good — and it seemed yet doubtful if Vivian were 
the agent — I should have cried, “ It is he ! and the better angel 
has triumphed ! ” With the same (alas ! with a yet more im- 
pulsive) quickness, when the agency was of evil, and the agent 
equally dubious, I felt that the qualities revealed the man, and 
that the demon had prevailed. 

Mile after mile, stage after stage, were passed, on the dreary, 
interminable, high north road. I narrated to my companion, 
more intelligibly than I had yet done, my causes for apprehen- 

z 


353 


354 


THE CAXTONS : 


sion. The Captain at first listened eagerly, then checked me on 
the sudden. “ There may be nothing in all this,” he cried. 
“ Sir, we must be men here — have our heads cool, our reason 
clear ; stop ! ” And, leaning back in the chaise, Roland refused 
farther conversation, and, as the night advanced, seemed to 
sleep. I took pity on his fatigue, and devoured my heart in 
silence. At each stage we heard of the party of which we were 
in pursuit. At the first stage or two we were less than an hour 
behind ; gradually, as we advanced, we lost ground, despite the 
most lavish liberality to the post-boys. I supposed, at length, 
that the mere circumstance of changing, at each relay, the 
chaise as well as the horses, was the cause of our comparative 
slowness ; and on saying this to Roland, as we were changing 
horses, somewhere about midnight, he at once called up the 
master of the inn, and gave him his own price for permission 
to retain the chaise till the journey’s end. This was so 
unlike Roland’s ordinary thrift, whether dealing with my money 
or his own — so unjustified by the fortune of either, that I 
could not help muttering something in apology. 

“Can you guess why I was a miser?” said Roland calmly. 

“ A miser ! — anything but that 1 Only prudent — military men 
often are so.” 

“ I was a miser,” repeated the Captain, with emphasis. “ I 
began the habit first when my son was but a child. I thought 
him high-spirited, and with a taste for extravagance. 'Well,’ 
said I to myself, ' I will save for him ; boys will be boys.’ Then, 
afterwards, when he was no more a child (at least he began to 
have the vices of a man), I said to myself, * Patience, he may 
reform still ! if not, I will save money, that I may have power 
over his self-interest, since I have none over his heart. I will 
bribe him into honour ! ’ And then — and then — God saw that 
1 was very proud, and I was punished. Tell them to drive 
faster — faster — why, this is a snail’s pace ! ” 

All that night, all the next day, till towards the evening, we 
pursued our journey, without pause, or other food than a crust 
of bread and a glass of wine. But we now picked up the ground 
we had lost, and gained upon the carriage. The night had 
closed in when we arrived at the stage at which the route to 

Lord N 's branched from the direct north road. And here, 

making our usual inquiry, my worst suspicions were confirmed. 
The carriage we pursued had changed horses an hour before, 

but had not taken the way to Lord N ’s ; — continuing the 

direct road into Scotland. The people of the inn had not seen 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


355 


the lady in the carriage, for it was already dark, but the 
man-servant (whose livery they described) had ordered the 
horses. 

The last hope that, in spite of appearances, no treachery had 
been designed here vanished. The Captain, at first, seemed 
more dismayed than myself, but he recovered more quickly. 
“ We will continue the journey on horseback,” he said ; and 
hurried to the stables. All objections vanished at the sight of 
his gold. In five minutes we were in the saddle, with a postillion 
also mounted, to accompany us. We did the next stage in little 
more than two-thirds of the time which we should have occupied 
in our former mode of travel — indeed, I found it hard to keep 
pace with Roland. We remounted ; we were only twenty-five 
minutes behind the carriage. We felt confident that we should 
overtake it before it could reach the next town — the moon was 
up — we could see far before us.- — We rode at full speed. Mile- 
stone after milestone glided by ; the carriage was not visible. 
We arrived at the post-town, or rather village ; it contained but 
one posting-house. We were long in knocking up the ostlers — 
no carriage had arrived just before us ; no carriage had passed 
the place since noon. 

What mystery was this ? 

“ Back, back, boy ! ” said Roland, with a soldier’s quick wit, 
and spurring his jaded horse from the yard. “ They will have 
taken a cross-road or by-lane. We shall track them by the 
hoofs of the horses or the print of the wheels.” 

Our postillibn grumbled, and pointed to the panting sides of 
our horses. For answer, Roland opened his hand — full of gold. 
Away we went back through the dull sleeping village, back into 
the broad moonlit thoroughfare. We came to a cross-road to 
the right, but the track we pursued still led us straight on. We 
had measured back nearly half the way to the post-town at 
which we had last changed, when lo ! there emerged from a 
by-lane two postillions and their horses ! 

At that sight our companion, shouting loud, pushed on before 
us and hailed his fellows. A very few words gave us the in- 
formation we sought. A wheel had come off the carriage just 
by the turn of the road, and the young lady and her servants 
had taken refuge in a small inn not many yards down the lane. 
The man-servant had dismissed the post-boys after they had 
baited their horses, saying they were to come again in the 
morning, and bring a blacksmith to repair the wheel. 

“ How came the wheel off? ” asked Roland sternly. 


356 


THE CAXTONS: 


“ Why, sir, the linch-pin was all rotted away, I suppose, and 
came out.” 

“ Did the servant get off the dickey after you set out, and 
before the accident happened ? ” 

“ Why, yes. He said the wheels were catching fire, that they 
had not the patent axles, and he had forgot to have them oiled.” 

“ And he looked at the wheels, and shortly afterwards the 
linch-pin came out ? Eh ? ” 

“ Anan, sir !” said the post-boy, staring; “why, and indeed so 
it was ! ” 

“ Come on, Pisistratus, we are in time ; but pray God — pray 
God — that” — the Captain dashed his spurs into the horse's 
sides, and the rest of his words were lost to me. 

A few yards back from the causeway, a broad patch of green 
before it, stood the inn — a sullen, old-fashioned building of cold 
grey stone, looking livid in the moonlight, with black firs at 
one side, throwing over half of it a dismal shadow. So solitary ! 
not a house, not a hut near it. If they who kept the inn were 
such that villainy might reckon on their connivance, and inno- 
cence despair of their aid — there was no neighbourhood to 
alarm — no refuge at hand. The spot was well chosen. 

The doors of the inn were closed; there was a light in the 
room below ; but the outside shutters were drawn over the 
windows on the first floor. My uncle paused a moment, and 
said to the postillion — 

“ Do you know' the back way to the premises ? ” 

“ No, sir : I doesn’t often come by this way, and they be new 
folks that have taken the house — and I hear it don’t prosper 
over much.” 

“ Knock at the door ; we will stand a little aside while you 
do so. If any one ask what you want — merely say you would 
speak to the servant — that you have found a purse; — here, 
hold up mine.” 

Roland and I had dismounted, and my uncle drew me close 
to the wall by the door. Observing that my impatience ill 
submitted to what seemed to me idle preliminaries — 

“ Hist ! ” whispered he ; “ if there be anything to conceal 
within, they will not answer the door till some one has recon- 
noitred ; were they to see us, they would refuse to open. But 
seeing only the post-boy, whom they will suppose at first to 
be one of those who brought the carriage, they will have no 
suspicion. Be ready to rush in the moment the door is 
unbarred.” 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


357 


My uncle’s veteran experience did not deceive him. — There 
was a long silence before any reply was made to the post-boy’s 
summons ; the light passed to and fro rapidly across the window, 
as if persons were moving within. Roland made sign to the 
post-boy to knock again ; he did so twice — thrice— and at last, 
from an attic window in the roof, a head obtruded, and a voice 
cried, “ Who are you ? — what do you want ? ” 

“ I’m the post-boy at the Red Lion ; I want to see the servant 
with the brown carriage : I have found this purse ! ” 

“Oh, that’s all — wait a bit.” 

The head disappeared ; we crept along under the projecting 
eaves of the house ; we heard the bar lifted from the door; the 
door itself cautiously opened ; one spring and I stood within, 
and set my back to the door to admit Roland. 

“ Ho, help ! — thieves ! — help ! ” cried a loud voice, and I 
felt a hand gripe at my throat. I struck at random in the 
dark, and with effect, for my blow was followed by a groan 
and a curse. 

Roland, meanwhile, had detected a ray through the chinks 
of a door in the hall, and, guided by it, found his way into 
the room at the window of which we had seen the light pass 
and go, while without. As he threw the door open, I bounded 
after him, and saw, in a kind of parlour, two females — the one 
a stranger, no doubt the hostess, the other the treacherous 
abigail. Their faces evinced their terror. 

“Woman,” I said, seizing the last, “where is Miss Tre- 
vanion ? ” Instead of replying, the woman set up a loud shriek. 
Another light now gleamed from the staircase which immedi- 
ately faced the door ; and I heard a voice, that I recognised as 
Peacock’s, cry out, “ Who’s there ? — What’s the matter ? ” 

I made a rush at the stairs. A burly form (that of the land- 
lord, who had recovered from my blow) obstructed my way for 
a moment, to measure its length on the floor at the next. I 
was at the top of the stairs ; Peacock recognised me, recoiled, 
and extinguished the light. Oaths, cries, and shrieks now 
resounded through the dark. Amidst them all, I suddenly 
heard a voice exclaim, “ Here, here ! — help ! ” It was the voice 
of Fannv. I made my way to the right, whence the voice 
came, and received a violent blow. Fortunately, it fell on the 
arm which I extended, as men do wdio feel their way through 
the dark. It was not the right arm, and I seized and closed 
on my assailant. Roland now came up, a candle in his hand, 
and at that sight my antagonist, who was no other than 


358 


THE CAXTONS: 


Peacock, slipped from me, and made a rush at the stairs. But 
the Captain caught him with his grasp of iron. Fearing nothing 
for Roland in a contest with any single foe, and all my thoughts 
bent on the rescue of her whose voice again broke on my ear, 
I had already (before the light of the candle which Roland held 
went out in the struggle between himself and Peacock) caught 
sight of a door at the end of the passage, and thrown myself 
against it : it was locked, but it shook and groaned to my 
pressure. 

“ Hold back, whoever you are ! ” cried a voice from the room 
within, far different from that wail of distress which had guided 
my steps. “ Hold back, at the peril of your life ! ” 

The voice, the threat, redoubled my strength; the door flew 
from its fastenings. I stood in the room. I saw Fanny at my 
feet, clasping my hands ; then raising herself, she hung on my 
shoulder and murmured “ Saved ! ” Opposite to me, his face 
deformed by passion, his eyes literally blazing with savage fire, 
his nostrils distended, his lips apart, stood the man I have 
called Francis Vivian. 

“ Fanny — Miss Trevanion — what outrage — what villainy is 
this ? You have not met this man at your free choice, — oh 
speak ! ” Vivian sprang forward. 

“ Question no one but me. Unhand that lady, — she is my 
betrothed — shall be my wife.” 

“ No, no, no, — don’t believe him,” cried Fanny ; “ I have 
been betrayed by my own servants — brought here, 1 know not 
how ! I heard my father was ill ; I was on my way to him : 

that man met me here, and dared to ” 

“ Miss Trevanion — yes, I dared to say I loved you.” 

“ Protect me from him ! — you will protect me from him ! ” 

“ No, madam ! ” said a voice behind me, in a deep tone, “ it 
is I who claim the right to protect you from that man ; it is I 
who now draw around you the arm of one sacred, even to him ; 
it is I who, from this spot, launch upon his head— a father’s 
curse. Violator of the hearth ! Baffled ravisher ! — go thy way 
to the doom which thou hast chosen for thyself. God will be 
merciful to me yet, and give me a grave before thy course find 
its close in the hulks — or at the gallows ! ” 

A sickness came over me — a terror froze my veins — I reeled 
back, and leant for support against the wall. Roland had passed 
his arm round Fanny, and she, frail and trembling, clung to his 
broad breast, looking fearfully up to his face. And never in 
that face, ploughed by deep emotions, and dark with unutterable 
























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A FAMILY PICTURE 


359 


sorrows, had I seen an expression so grand in its wrath, so 
sublime in its despair. Following the direction of his eye, 
stern, and fixed as the look of one who prophesies a destiny 
and denounces a doom, I shivered as I gazed upon the son. 
His whole frame seemed collapsed and shrinking, as if already 
withered by the curse ; a ghastly whiteness overspread the 
cheek, usually glowing with the dark bloom of oriental youth ; 
the knees knocked together ; and, at last, with a faint exclama- 
tion of pain, like the cry of one who receives a death-blow, he 
bowed his face over his clasped hands, and so remained — still, 
but cowering. 

Instinctively I advanced, and placed myself between the 
father and the son, murmuring, “ Spare him ; see, his own heart 
crushes him down.” Then stealing towards the son, I whispered, 
“ Go, go ; the crime was not committed, the curse can be re- 
called.” But my words touched a wrong chord in that dark 
and rebellious nature. The young man withdrew his hands 
hastily from his face and reared his front in passionate defiance. 

Waving me aside, he cried, “ Away ! I acknowledge no 
authority over my actions and my fate ; I allow no mediator 
between this lady and myself. Sir,” he continued, gazing 
gloomily on his father — “sir, you forget our compact. Our ties 
were severed, your power over me annulled ; I resigned the 
name you bear : to you I was, and am still, as the dead. I deny 
your right to step between me and the object dearer to me 
than life.” 

“ Oh ! ” (and here he stretched forth his hands towards 
Fanny) — “Oh, Miss Trevanion, do not refuse me one prayer, 
however you condemn me. Let me see you alone but for one 
moment ; let me but prove to you that, guilty as I may have 
been, it was not from the base motives you will hear imputed 
to me — that it was not the heiress I sought to decoy, it was 
the woman I sought to win ; oh, hear me ” 

“No, no,” murmured Fanny, clinging closer to Roland; “do 
not leave me. If, as it seems, he is your son, I forgive him : 
but let him go — I shudder at his very voice ! ” 

“Would you have me, indeed, annihilate the memory of the 
bond between _us?” said Roland, in a hollow voice; “would you 
have me see in you only the vile thief, the lawless felon, — deliver 
you up to justice, or strike you to my feet? Let the memory 
still save you, and begone ! ” 

Again I caught hold of the guilty son, and again he broke 
from my grasp. 


360 


THE CAXTONS : 


“ It is/’ he said, folding his arms deliberately on his breast — 
“ it is for me to command in this house ; all who are within it 
must submit to my orders. You, sir, who hold reputation, name, 
and honour at so high a price, how can you fail to see that you 
would rob them from the lady whom you would protect from 
the insult of my affection ? How would the world receive the 
tale of your rescue of Miss Trevanion ? how believe that — oh, 
pardon me, madam — Miss Trevanion — Fanny — pardon me — I 
am mad ; only hear me — alone — alone — and then if you, too, 
say ‘ Begone/ I submit without a murmur ; I allow no arbiter 
but you.” 

But Fanny still clung closer, and closer still, to Roland. At 
that moment I heard voices and the trampling of feet below, 
and supposing that the accomplices in this villainy were muster- 
ing courage, perhaps, to mount to the assistance of their em- 
ployer, I lost all the compassion that had hitherto softened my 
horror of the young man’s crime, and all the awe with which 
that confession had been attended. I therefore, this time, 
seized the false Vivian with a gripe that he could no longer 
shake off, and said sternly — 

“ Beware how you aggravate your offence. If strife ensues, 
it will not be between father and son, and ” 

Fanny sprang forward. “ Do not provoke this bad dangerous 
man. I fear him not. Sir, I will hear you, and alone.” 

“ Never ! ” cried I and Roland simultaneously. 

Vivian turned his look fiercely to me, and with a sullen 
bitterness to his father, and then, as if resigning his former 
prayer, he said — “ Well, then, be it so ; even in the presence 
of those who judge me so severely, I will speak, at least.” He 
paused, and throwing into his voice a passion that, had the 
repugnance at his guilt been less, would not have been without 
pathos, he continued to address Fanny : “ I own that, when I 
first saw you, I might have thought of love, as the poor and 
ambitious think of the way to wealth and power. Those 
thoughts vanished, and nothing remained in my heart but love 
and madness. I was as a man in a delirium when I planned 
this snare. I knew but one object — saw but one heavenly 
vision. Oh ! mine — mine at least in that vision — are you 
indeed lost to me for ever ! ” 

There was that in this man’s tone and manner which, whether 
arising from accomplished hypocrisy, or actual, if perverted, 
feeling, would, I thought, find its way at once to the heart of 
a woman who, however wronged, had once loved him; and. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


361 


with a cold misgiving, I fixed my eyes on Miss Trevanion. Her 
look, as she turned with a visible tremor, suddenly met mine, 
and I believe that she discerned my doubt, for, after suffering 
her eyes to rest on my own, with something of mournful 
reproach, her lips curved as with the pride of her mother, and 
for the first time in my life I saw anger on her brow. 

“ It is well, sir, that you have thus spoken to me in the pre- 
sence of others, for in their presence I call upon you to say, by 
that honour which the son of this gentleman may for a while 
forget, but cannot wholly forfeit, — I call upon you to say, 
whether by deed, word, or sign, I, Frances Trevanion, ever gave 
you cause to believe that I returned the feeling you say you 
entertained for me, or encouraged you to dare this attempt to 
place me in your power.” 

“No!” cried Vivian readily, but with a writhing lip — “no; 
but where I loved so deeply, perilled all my fortune for one fair 
and free occasion to tell you so alone, I would not think that 
such love could meet only loathing and disdain. What ! — has 
Nature shaped me so unkindly, that where I love no love can 
reply ? What ! — has the accident of birth shut me out from 
the right to woo and mate with the high-born ? For the last, 
at least that gentleman in justice should tell you, since it has 
been his care to instil the haughty lesson into me, that my 
lineage is one that befits lofty hopes, and warrants fearless 
ambition. My hopes, my ambition — they were you ! Oh, Miss 
Trevanion, it is true that to win you I would have braved the 
world’s laws, defied every foe, save him who now rises before 
me. Yet, believe me, believe me, had I won what I dared to 
aspire to, you would not have been disgraced by your choice ; 
and the name, for which I thank not my father, should not 
have been despised by the woman who pardoned my pre- 
sumption, nor by the man who now tramples on my anguish 
and curses me in my desolation.” 

Not by a word had Roland sought to interrupt his son — nay, 
by a feverish excitement, which my heart understood in its secret 
sympathy, he had seemed eagerly to court every syllable that 
could extenuate the darkness of the offence, or even imply some 
less sordid motive for the baseness of the means. But as the 
son now closed with the words of unjust reproach, and the 
accents of fierce despair — closed a defence that showed, in its 
false pride and its perverted eloquence, so utter a blindness to 
every principle of that Honour which had been the father’s idol, 
Roland placed his hand before the eyes that he had previously, 


362 


THE CAXTONS: 


as if spellbound, fixed on the hardened offender, and once more 
drawing Fanny towards him, said — 

“ His breath pollutes the air that innocence and honesty 
should breathe. He says, ‘ All in this house are at his com- 
mand,’ — why do we stay ? — let us go.” He turned towards the 
door, and Fanny with him. 

Meanwhile the louder sounds below had been silenced for 
some moments, but I heard a step in the hall. Vivian started, 
and placed himself before us. 

“ No, no, you cannot leave me thus. Miss Trevanion. I resign 
you — be it so ; I do not even ask for pardon. But to leave 
this house thus, without carriage, without attendants, without 
explanation ! — the blame falls on me — it shall do so. But at 
least vouchsafe me the right to repair what I yet can repair of 
the wrong, to protect all that is left to me— your name.” 

As he spoke, he did not perceive (for he was facing us, and 
with his back to the door) that a new actor had noiselessly 
entered on the scene, and, pausing by the threshold, heard his 
last words. 

“ The name of Miss Trevanion, sir — and from what ? ” asked 
the newcomer, as he advanced and surveyed Vivian with a look 
that, but for its quiet, would have seemed disdain. 

“ Lord Castleton ! ” exclaimed Fanny, lifting up the face she 
had buried in her hands. 

Vivian recoiled in dismay, and gnashed his teeth. 

“Sir,” said the marquis, “I await your reply; for not even 
you, in my presence, shall imply that one reproach can be 
attached to the name of that lady.” 

“ Oh, moderate your tone to me, my Lord Castleton ! ” cried 
Vivian; “in you, at least, there is one man I am not forbidden 
to brave and defy. It was to save that lady from the cold 
ambition of her parents — it was to prevent the sacrifice of her 
youth and beauty, to one whose sole merits are his wealth and 
his titles — it was this that impelled me to the crime I have 
committed, this that hurried me on to risk all for one hour, 
when youth at least could plead its cause to youth ; and this 
gives me now the power to say that it does rest with me to 
protect the name of the lady, whom your very servility to that 
world which you have made your idol forbids you to claim from 
the heartless ambition that would sacrifice the daughter to the 
vanity of the parents. Ha ! the future Marchioness of Castleton 
on her way to Scotland with a penniless adventurer ! Ha ! if 
my lips are sealed, who but I can seal the lips of those below 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


363 


in my secret ? The secret shall be kept, but on this condition 
— you shall not triumph where I have failed ; I may lose what 
I adored, but I do not resign it to another. Ha ; have I foiled 
you, my Lord Castleton ? — ha, ha ! ” 

“ No, sir ; and I almost forgive you the villainy you have not 
effected, for informing me, for the first time, that had I pre- 
sumed to address Miss Trevanion, her parents at least would 
have pardoned the presumption. Trouble not yourself as to 
what your accomplices may say. They have already confessed 
their infamy and your own. Out of my path, sir ! ” 

Then, with the benign look of a father, and the lofty grace of 
a prince. Lord Castleton advanced to Fanny. Looking round 
with a shudder, she hastily placed her hand in his, and, by so 
doing, perhaps prevented some violence on the part of Vivian, 
whose heaving breast, and eye bloodshot, and still unquailing, 
showed how little even shame had subdued his fiercer passions. 
But he made no offer to detain them, and his tongue seemed to 
cleave to his lips. Now, as Fanny moved to the door, she passed 
Roland, who stood motionless and with vacant looks, like an 
image of stone; and with a beautiful tenderness, for which (even 
at this distant date recalling it), I say, “ God requite thee, 
Fanny,” she laid her other hand on Roland’s arm, and said, 
“ Come, too ; your arm still.” 

But Roland’s limbs trembled and refused to stir ; his head, re- 
laxing, drooped on his breast, his eyes closed. Even Lord Castle- 
ton was so struck (though unable to guess the true and terrible 
cause of his dejection) that he forgot his desire to hasten from 
the spot, and cried with all his kindliness of heart, “ You are ill 
— you faint ; give him your arm, Pisistratus.” 

“ It is nothing,” said Roland feebly, as he leant heavily on 
my arm, while I turned back my head with all the bitterness of 
that reproach which filled my heart, speaking in the eyes that 
sought him , whose place should have been where mine now was. 
And, oh ! — thank Heaven, thank Heaven ! — the look was not 
in vain. In the same moment the son was at the father’s 
knees. 

“ Oh, pardon — pardon ! Wretch, lost wretch though I be, I 
bow my head to the curse. Let it fall— but on me, and on me 
only — not on your own heart too.” 

Fanny burst into tears, sobbing out, “Forgive him, as I do.” 

Roland did not heed her. 

“ He thinks that the heart was not shattered before the curse 
could come,” he said, in a voice so weak as to be scarcely audible. 


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Then, raising his eyes to heaven, his lips moved as if he prayed 
inly. Pausing, he stretched his hands over his son’s head, and 
averting his face, said, “ I revoke the curse. Pray to thy God for 
pardon.” 

Perhaps not daring to trust himself further, he then made a 
violent effort, and hurried from the room. 

We followed silently. When we gained the end of the pas- 
sage, the door of the room we had left closed with a sullen jar. 

As the sound smote on my ear, with it came so terrible 
a sense of the solitude upon which that door had closed — so 
keen and quick an apprehension of some fearful impulse, sug- 
gested by passions so fierce, to a condition so forlorn — that 
instinctively I stopped, and then hurried back to the chamber. 
The lock of the door having been previously forced, there was 
no barrier to oppose my entrance. I advanced, and beheld a 
spectacle of such agony, as can only be conceived by those who 
have looked on the grief which takes no fortitude from reason, 
no consolation from conscience — the grief which tells us what 
would be the earth were man abandoned to his passions, and 
the chance of the atheist reigned alone in the merciless 
heavens. Pride humbled to the dust; ambition shivered into frag- 
ments ; love (or the passion mistaken for it) blasted into ashes ; 
life, at the first onset, bereaved of its holiest ties, forsaken by 
its truest guide ; shame that writhed for revenge, and remorse 
that knew not prayer — all, all blended, yet distinct, were in 
that awful spectacle of the guilty son. 

And I had told but twenty years, and my heart had been 
mellowed in the tender sunshine of a happy home, and I had 
loved this boy as a stranger, and, lo ! — he was Roland’s son ! I 
forgot all else, looking upon that anguish ; and I threw myself 
on the ground by the form that writhed there, and folding my 
arms round the breast which in vain repelled me, I whispered, 
"Comfort — comfort — life is long. You shall redeem the past, 
you shall efface the stain, and your father shall bless you yet ! ” 


CHAPTER II 

[ COULD not stay long with my unhappy cousin, but still I 
stayed long enough to make me think it probable that Lord 
Castleton’s carriage would have left the inn : and when, as I passed 
the hall, I saw it standing before the open door, I was seized with 


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fear for Roland ; his emotions might have ended in some physical 
attack. Nor were those fears without foundation. I found 
Fanny kneeling beside the old soldier in the parlour where we 
had seen the two women, and bathing his temples, while Lord 
Castleton was binding his arm ; and the marquis’s favourite 
valet, who, amongst his other gifts, was something of a surgeon, 
was wiping the blade of the penknife that had served instead of 
a lancet. Lord Castleton nodded to me, “ Don’t be uneasy — 
a little fainting fit — we have bled him. He is safe now — see, 
he is recovering.” 

Roland’s eyes, as they opened, turned to me with an anxious, 
inquiring look. I smiled upon him as I kissed his forehead, 
and could, with a safe conscience, whisper words which neither 
father nor Christian could refuse to receive as a comfort. 

In a few minutes more we had left the house. As Lord 
Castleton’s carriage only held two, the marquis, having assisted 
Miss Trevanion and Roland to enter, quietly mounted the seat 
behind, and made a sign to me to come by his side, for there 
was room for both. (His servant had taken one of the horses 
that had brought thither Roland and myself, and already gone 
on before.) No conversation took place between us then. Lord 
Castleton seemed profoundly affected, and I had no words at my 
command. 

When we had reached the inn at which Lord Castleton had 
changed horses, about six miles distant, the marquis insisted on 
Fanny's taking some rest for a few hours, for indeed she was 
thoroughly worn out. 

I attended my uncle to his room, but he only answered my 
assurances of his son’s repentance with a pressure of the hand, 
and then, gliding from me, went into the farthest recess of the 
room, and there knelt down. When he rose, he was passive and 
tractable as a child. He suffered me to assist him to undress ; 
and when he had lain down on the bed, he turned his face 
quietly from the light, and, after a few heavy sighs, sleep seemed 
mercifully to steal upon him. I listened to his breathing till it 
grew low and regular, and then descended to the sitting-room 
in which I had left Lord Castleton, for he had asked me in a 
whisper to seek him there. 

I found the marquis seated by the fire, in a thoughtful and 
dejected attitude. 

“ I am glad you are come,” said he, making room for me on 
the hearth, “for I assure you I have not felt so mournful for 
many years ; we have much to explain to each other. Will you 


366 


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begin ? they say the sound of the bell dissipates the thunder- 
cloud. And there is nothing like the voice of a frank, honest 
nature to dispel all the clouds that come upon us when we think 
of our own faults and the villainy of others. But I beg you 
a thousand pardons — that young man, your relation ! — your 
brave uncle’s son ! Is it possible ?” 

My explanations to Lord Castleton were necessarily brief and 
imperfect. The separation between Roland and his son, my 
ignorance of its cause, my belief in the death of the latter, my 
chance acquaintance with the supposed Vivian ; the interest I 
took in him ; the relief it was to the fears for his fate with 
which he inspired me, to think he had returned to the home I 
ascribed to him : and the circumstances which had induced my 
suspicions, justified by the result — all this was soon hurried 
over. 

“ But, I beg your pardon,” said the marquis, interrupting me, 
“ did you, in your friendship for one so unlike you, even by your 
own partial account, never suspect that you had stumbled upon 
your lost cousin ? ” 

“ Such an idea never could have crossed me.” 

And here I must observe, that though the reader, at the first 
introduction of Vivian, would divine the secret, — the penetration 
of a reader is wholly different from that of the actor in events. 
That I had chanced on one of those curious coincidences in the 
romance of real life, which a reader looks out for and expects in 
following the course of narrative, was a supposition forbidden 
to me by a variety of causes. There was not the least family 
resemblance between Vivian and any of his relations ; and, some- 
how or other, in Roland’s son I had pictured to myself a form 
and a character wholly different from Vivian’s. To me it would 
have seemed impossible that my cousin could have been so little 
curious to hear any of our joint family affairs ; been so un- 
heedful, or even weary, if I spoke of Roland — never, by a word 
or tone, have betrayed a sympathy with his kindred. And my 
other conjecture was so probable ! — son of the Colonel Vivian 
whose name he bore. And that letter, with the post-mark of 
“Godaiming!” and my belief, too, in my cousin’s death; even 
now I am not surprised that the idea never occurred to me. 

I paused from enumerating these excuses for my dulness, 
angry with myself, for I noticed that Lord Castleton’s fair brow 
darkened ; — and he exclaimed, “ What deceit he must have gone 
through before he could become such a master in the art ! ” 

“That is true, and I cannot deny it,” said I. “But his 


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punishment now is awful : let us hope that repentance may 
follow the chastisement. And, though certainly it must have 
been his own fault that drove him from his father’s home and 
guidance, yet, so driven, let us make some allowance for the 
influence of evil companionship on one so young — for the 
suspicions that the knowledge of evil produces, and turns into 
a kind of false knowledge of the world. And in this last and 
worst of all his actions ” 

" Ah, how justify that ? ” 

"Justify it ! — good heavens ! justify it ! — no. I only say this, 
strange as it may seem, that I believe his affection for Miss Tre- 
vanion was for herself: so he says, from the depth of an anguish 
in which the most insincere of men would cease to feign. But 
no more of this, — she is saved, thank Heaven ! ” 

"And you believe,” said Lord Castleton musingly, "that he 

spoke the truth when he thought that I ” The marquis 

stopped, coloured slightly, and then went on. " But no ; Lady 
Ellinor and Trevanion, whatever might have been in their 
thoughts, would never have so forgot their dignity as to take 
him, a youth — almost a stranger — nay, take any one into their 
confidence on such a subject.” 

" It was but by broken gasps, incoherent, disconnected words, 
that Vivian, — I mean my cousin, — gave me any explanation of 

this. But Lady N , at whose house he was staying, appears 

to have entertained such a notion, or at least led my cousin to 
think so.” 

"Ah ! that is possible,” said Lord Castleton, with a look of 

relief. " Lady N and I were boy and girl together ; we 

correspond ; she has written to me suggesting that Ah ! I 

see, — an indiscreet woman. Hum ! this comes of lady corre- 
spondents ! ” 

Lord Castleton had recourse to the Beaudesert mixture ; and 
then, as if eager to change the subject, began his own explana- 
tion. On receiving my letter, he saw even more cause to 
suspect a snare than I had done, for he had that morning 
received a letter from Trevanion, not mentioning a word about 
his illness ; and on turning to the newspaper, and seeing a para- 
graph headed, "Sudden and alarming illness of Mr. Trevanion,” 
the marquis had suspected some party manoeuvre or unfeeling 
hoax, since the mail that had brought the letter must have 
travelled as quickly as any messenger who had given the in- 
formation to the newspaper. He had, however, immediately 
sent down to the office of the journal to inquire on what 


368 


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authority the paragraph had been inserted, while he despatched 
another messenger to St. James’s Square. The reply from the 
office was, that the message had been brought by a servant in 
Mr. Trevanion’s livery, but was not admitted as news until it 
had been ascertained by inquiries at the minister’s house that 
Lady Ellinor had received the same intelligence and actually 
left town in consequence. 

“ I was extremely sorry for poor Lady Ellinor’s uneasiness,” 
said Lord Castleton, “ and extremely puzzled, but I still thought 
there could be no real ground for alarm until your letter reached 
me. And when you there stated your conviction that Mr. Gower 
was mixed up in this fable, and that it concealed some snare 
upon Fanny, I saw the thing at a glance. The road to Lord 

N ’s, till within the last stage or two, would be the road to 

Scotland. And a hardy and unscrupulous adventurer, with the 
assistance of Miss Trevanion’s servants, might thus entrap her 
to Scotland itself, and there work on her fears ; or, if he had 
hope in her affections, entrap her into consent to a Scotch 
marriage. You may be sure, therefore, that I was on the road 
as soon as possible. But as your messenger came all the way 
from the City, and not so quickly perhaps as he might have 
come ; and then, as there was the carriage to see to, and the 
horses to send for, I found myself more than an hour and a half 
behind you. Fortunately, however, I made good ground, and 
should probably have overtaken you half-way, but that, on 
passing between a ditch and waggon, the carriage was upset, 
and that somewhat delayed me. On arriving at the town 

where the road branched off to Lord N ’s, I was rejoiced 

to learn you had taken what I was sure would prove the right 
direction, and finally I gained the clue to that villainous inn, by 
the report of the post-boys who had taken Miss Trevanion’s 
carriage there, and met you on the road. On reaching the inn, 
I found two fellows conferring outside the door. They sprang 
in as we drove up, but not before my servant Summers — a 
quick fellow, you know, who has travelled with me from Norway 
to Nubia — had quitted his seat, and got into the house, into 
which I followed him with a step, you dog, as active as your 
own ! Egad ! I was twenty-one then ! Two fellows had already 
knocked down poor Summers and showed plenty of fight. Do 
you know,” said the marquis, interrupting himself with an air 
of serio-comic humiliation — “ do you know that I actually — no, 
you never will believe it — mind ’tis a secret — actually Ifroke my 
cane over one fellow’s shoulders ? — look ! ” (and the marquis 


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369 


held up the fragment of the lamented weapon). “ And I half 
suspect, but I can’t say positively, that I had even the necessity 
to demean myself by a blow with the naked hand — clenched 
too ! — quite Eton again — upon my honour it was. Ha, ha ! ” 

And the marquis — whose magnificent proportions, in the full 
vigour of man’s strongest, if not his most combative, age, would 
have made him a formidable antagonist, even to a couple of 
prize-fighters, supposing he had retained a little of Eton skill in 
such encounters — laughed with the glee of a schoolboy, whether 
at the thought of his prowess, or his sense of the contrast be- 
tween so rude a recourse to primitive warfare, and his own 
indolent habits, and almost feminine good temper. Composing 
himself, however, with the quick recollection how little I could 
share his hilarity, he resumed gravely, “ It took us some time 
— I don’t say to defeat our foes; but to bind them, which I 
thought a necessary precaution; — one fellow, Trevanion’s servant, 
all the while stunning me with quotations from Shakspeare. 
I then gently laid hold of a gown, the bearer of which had been 
long trying to scratch me ; but, being luckily a small woman, had 
not succeeded in reaching to my eyes. But the gown escaped, 
and fluttered off to the kitchen. I followed, and there 1 found 
Miss Trevanion’s Jezebel of a maid. She was terribly frightened, 
and affected to be extremely penitent. I own to you that I 
don’t care what a man says in the way of slander, but a woman’s 
tongue against another woman — especially if that tongue be in 
the mouth of a lady’s lady — I think it always worth silencing : 
I therefore consented to pardon this woman on condition she 
would find her way here before morning. No scandal shall 
come from her. Thus you see some minutes elapsed before I 
joined you ; but I minded that the less, as I heard you and 
the Captain were already in the room with Miss Trevanion ; and 
not, alas ! dreaming of your connection with the culprit, I was 
wondering what could have delayed you so long, — afraid, I own 
it, to find that Miss Trevanion’s heart might have been seduced 
by that — hem — hem ! — handsome — young — hem — diem ! — 
There’s no fear of that ? ” added Lord Castleton anxiously, as 
he bent his bright eyes upon mine. 

I felt myself colour as I answered firmly, “ It is just to Miss 
Trevanion to add, that the unhappy man owned, in her presence 
and in mine, that he had never had the slightest encourage- 
ment for his attempt — never one cause to believe that she ap- 
proved the affection which, I try to think, blinded and maddened 
himself,” 


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“ I believe you ; for I think ” — Lord Castleton paused uneasily, 
again looked at me, rose, and walked about the room with 
evident agitation ; then, as if he had come to some resolution, 
he returned to the hearth and stood facing me. 

“ My dear young friend,” said he, with his irresistible kindly 
frankness, “ this is an occasion that excuses all things between 
us, even my impertinence. Your conduct from first to last has 
been such, that I wish, from the bottom of my heart, that I had 
a daughter to offer you, and that you felt for her as I believe 
you feel for Miss Trevanion. These are not mere words ; do not 
look down as if ashamed. All the marquisates in the world 
would never give me the pride I should feel, if I could see in 
my life one steady self-sacrifice to duty and honour, equal to 
that which I have witnessed in you.” 

“ Oh, my lord ! my lord ! ” 

“ Hear me out. That you love Fanny Trevanion I know ; that 
she may have innocently, timidly, half-unconsciously returned 
that affection, I think probable. But ” 

“1 know what you would say ; spare me— I know it all.” 

“ No ! it is a thing impossible ; and, if Lady Ellinor could 
consent, there would be such a life-long regret on her part, 
such a weight of obligation on yours, that — no, I repeat, it is 
impossible ! But let us both think of this poor girl. I know 
her better than you can — have known her from a child ; know 
all her virtues — they are charming; all her faults — they expose 
her to danger. These parents of hers — with their genius and 
ambition — may do very well to rule England, and influence the 
world ; but to guide the fate of that child — no ! ” Lord Castleton 
stopped, for he was affected. I felt my old jealousy return, but 
it was no longer bitter. 

“ I say nothing,” continued the marquis, “ of this position, in 
which, without fault of hers, Miss Trevanion is placed : Lady 
Ellinor’s knowledge of the world, and woman’s wit, will see how 
all that can be best put right. Still it is awkward, and demands 
much consideration. But, putting this aside altogether, if you 
do firmly believe that Miss Trevanion is lost to you, can you 
bear to think that she is to be flung as a mere cipher into 
the account of the worldly greatness of an aspiring politician — 
married to some minister, too busy to watch over her ; or some 
duke, who looks to pay off his mortgages with her fortune — 
minister or duke only regarded as a prop to Trevaniqn’s power 
against a counter cabal, or as giving his section a preponderance 
in the cabinet ? Be assured such is her most likely destiny, or 


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rather the beginning of a destiny yet more mournful. Now, I 
tell you this, that he who marries Fanny Trevanion should have 
little other object, for the first few years of marriage, than to 
correct her failings and develop her virtues. Believe one who, 
alas ! has too dearly bought his knowledge of woman — hers is 
a character to be formed. Well, then, if this prize be lost to 
you, would it be an irreparable grief to your generous affection 
to think that it has fallen to the lot of one who at least 
knows his responsibilities, and who will redeem his own life, 
hitherto wasted, by the steadfast endeavour to fulfil them? 
Can you take this hand still, and press it, even though it be a 
rival’s ?” 

“ My lord ! This from you to me, is an honour that ” 

“ You will not take my hand ? Then, believe me, it is not I 
that will give that grief to your heart.” 

Touched, penetrated, melted, by this generosity in a man of 
such lofty claims, to one of my age and fortunes, I pressed that 
noble hand, half raising it to my lips — an action of respect 
that would have misbecome neither ; but he gently withdrew 
the hand, in the instinct of his natural modesty. I had then 
no heart to speak further on such a subject, but faltering out 
that I would go and see my uncle, I took up the light, and 
ascended the stairs. I crept noiselessly into Roland’s room, 
and shading the light, saw that, though he slept, his face was 
very troubled. And then I thought, “ What are my young 
griefs to his ? ” and sitting beside the bed, communed with my 
own heart and was still ! 


CHAPTER III 

A T sunrise I went down into the sitting-room, having resolved 
to write to my father to join us ; for I felt how much 
Roland needed his comfort and his counsel, and it was no 
great distance from the old Tower. I was surprised to find 
Lord Castleton still seated by the fire ; he had evidently not 
gone to bed. 

“ That’s right,” said he; “we must encourage each other to 
recruit nature,” and he pointed to the breakfast things on the 
table. 

I had scarcely tasted food for many hours, but I was only 
aware of my own hunger by a sensation of faintness. I ate 


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unconsciously, and was almost ashamed to feel how much the 
food restored me. 

“ I suppose,” said I, “ that you will soon set off to Lord N.’s ? ” 

“ Nay, did I not tell you that I have sent Summers express, 
with a note to Lady Ellinor, begging her to come here ? I did 
not see, on reflection, how I could decorously accompany Miss 
Trevanion alone, without even a female servant, to a house 
full of gossiping guests. And even had your uncle been well 
enough to go with us, his presence would but have created an 
additional cause for wonder ; so, as soon as we arrived, and 
while you went up with the Captain, I wrote my letter and 
despatched my man. I expect Lady Ellinor will be here 
before nine o’clock. Meanwhile, I have already seen that in- 
famous waiting-woman, and taken care to prevent any danger 
from her garrulity. And you will be pleased to hear that I 
have hit upon a mode of satisfying the curiosity of our friend 
Mrs. Grundy — that is, f the World’ — without injury to any one. 
We must suppose that that footman of Trevanion’s was out of 
his mind — it is but a charitable, and your good father would 
say, a philosophical supposition. All great knavery is madness ! 
The world could not get on if truth and goodness were not the 
natural tendencies of sane minds. Do you understand?” 

“ Not quite.” 

“ Why, the footman, being out of his mind, invented this 
mad story of Trevanion’s illness, frightened Lady Ellinor and 
Miss Trevanion out of their wits with his own chimera, and 
hurried them both off, one after the other. I having heard 
from Trevanion, and knowing he could not have been ill when 
the servant left him, set off, as was natural in so old a friend 
of the family, saved her from the freaks of a maniac, who, 
getting more and more flighty, was beginning to play the Jack 
o’ Lantern, and leading her. Heaven knows where, over the 
country : — and then wrote to Lady Ellinor to come to her. It 
is but a hearty laugh at our expense, and Mrs. Grundy is 
content. If you don’t want her to pity, or backbite, let her 
laugh. She is a she Cerberus — she wants to eat you ; well — 
stop her mouth with a cake. 

“ Yes,” continued this better sort of Aristippus, so wise under 
all his seeming levities; “the cue thus given, everything favours 
it. If that rogue of a lackey quoted Shakspeare as much in the 
servants’ hall as he did while I was binding him neck and heels 
in the kitchen, that’s enough for all the household to declare 
he was moon-stricken ; and if we find it necessary to do any- 


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thing more, why, we must induce him to go into Bedlam for a 
month or two. The disappearance of the waiting-woman is 
natural ; either I or Lady Ellinor send her about her business 
for her folly in being so gulled by the lunatic. If that’s un- 
just, why, injustice to servants is common enough — public and 
private. Neither minister nor lackey can be forgiven, if he 
help us into a scrape. One must vent one’s passion on some- 
thing. Witness my poor cane : though, indeed, a better illus- 
tration would be the cane that Louis XIV. broke on a foot- 
man, because his Majesty was out of humour with the prince, 
whose shoulders were too sacred for royal indignation. 

“ So you see,” concluded Lord Castleton, lowering his voice, 
“ that your uncle, amongst all his other causes of sorrow, may 
think at least that his name is spared in his son’s. And the 
young man himself may find reform easier, when freed from 
that despair of the possibility of redemption, which Mrs. Grundy 
inflicts upon those who — Courage, then ; life is long ! ” 

“ My very words ! ” I cried ; “ and so repeated by you. Lord 
Castleton, they seem prophetic.” 

“ Take my advice, and don’t lose sight of your cousin while 
his pride is yet humbled, and his heart perhaps softened. I 
don’t say this only for his sake. No, it is your poor uncle I 
think of : noble old fellow ! And now, I think it right to pay 
Lady Ellinor the respect of repairing, as well as I can, the havoc 
three sleepless nights have made on the exterior of a gentleman 
w'ho is on the shady side of remorseless forty.” 

Lord Castleton here left me, and I wrote to my father, 
begging him to meet us at the next stage (which was the 
nearest point from the high road to the Tower), and I sent off 
the letter by a messenger on horseback. That task done, I leant 
my head upon my hand, and a profound sadness settled upon 
me, despite all my efforts to face the future, and think only of 
the duties of life — not its sorrows. 


CHAPTER IV 


T3EFORE nine o’clock. Lady Ellinor arrived, and went straight 
into Miss Trevanion’s room. I took refuge in my uncle’s. 


Roland was awake and calm, but so feeble that he made no 
effort to rise ; and it was his calm, indeed, that alarmed 
me the most— it was like the calm of nature thoroughly 


374 


THE CAXTONS : 


exhausted. He obeyed me mechanically, as a patient takes 
from your hand the draught, of which he is almost unconscious, 
when I pressed him to take food. He smiled on me faintly, 
when I spoke to him ; but made me a sign that seemed to implore 
silence. Then he turned his face from me, and buried it in the 
pillow ; and I thought that he slept again, when, raising himself 
a little, and feeling for my hand, he said, in a scarcely audible 
voice — 

“ Where is he ? ” 

“ Would you see him, sir ? ” 

“ No, no ; that would kill me — and then — what would become 
of him ? ” 

“ He has promised me an interview, and in that interview I 
feel assured he will obey your wishes, whatever they are.” 

Roland made no answer. 

“ Lord Castleton has arranged all, so that his name and mad- 
ness (thus let us call it) will never be known.” 

“ Pride, pride ! pride still ! ” — murmured the old soldier. 
“ The name, the name — well, that is much ; but the living 
soul ! — I wish Austin were here.” 

“ I have sent for him, sir.” 

Roland pressed my hand, and was again silent. Then he 
began to mutter, as I thought, incoherently, about the Peninsula 
and obeying orders ; and how some officer woke Lord Welling- 
ton at night, and said that something or other (I could not 
catch what — the phrase was technical and military) was im- 
possible ; and how Lord Wellington asked “ Where’s the order- 
book ? ” and looking into the order-book, said, “ Not at all 
impossible, for it is in the order-book ;” and so Lord Wellington 
turned round and went to sleep again. Then suddenly Roland 
half rose, and said, in a voice clear and firm, “ But Lord Welling- 
ton, though a great captain, was a fallible man, sir, and the 
order-book was his own mortal handiwork. — Get me the Bible!” 

0 Roland, Roland ! and I had feared that thy mind was 
wandering ! 

So I went down and borrowed a Bible, in large characters, 
and placed it on the bed before him, opening the shutters, and 
letting in God’s day upon God’s Word. 

1 had just done this, when there was a slight knock at the 
door. I opened it, and Lord Castleton stood without. He 
asked me, in a whisper, if he might see my uncle. I drew him 
in gently, and pointed to the soldier of life, “ learning what was 
not impossible ” from the unerring Order-Book. 


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375 


Lord Castleton. gazed with a changing countenance, and, 
without disturbing my uncle, stole back. I followed him, and 
gently closed the door. 

“ You must save his son,” he said, in a faltering voice — “you 
must ; and tell me how to help you. That sight ! — no sermon 
ever touched me more. Now come down, and receive Lady 
Ellinor’s thanks. We are going. She wants me to tell my own 
tale to my old friend, Mrs. Grundy ; so I go with them. Come ! ” 

On entering the sitting-room. Lady Ellinor came up and 
fairly embraced me. I need not repeat her thanks, still less the 
praises, which fell cold and hollow on my ear. My gaze rested 
on Fanny where she stood apart — her eyes, heavy with fresh 
tears, bent on the ground. And the sense of all her charms — 
the memory of the tender, exquisite kindness she had shown to 
the stricken father ! the generous pardon she had extended to 
the criminal son ; the looks she had bent upon me on that 
memorable night — looks that had spoken such trust in my 
presence — the moment in which she had clung to me for pro- 
tection, and her breath been warm upon my cheek— all these 
rushed over me ; and I felt that the struggle of months was 
undone — that I had never loved her as I loved her then — 
when I saw her but to lose her evermore ! And then there 
came for the first, and, I now rejoice to think, for the only time, 
a bitter, ungrateful accusation against the cruelty of fortune and 
the disparities of life. What was it that set our two hearts 
eternally apart, and made hope impossible ? Not nature, but 
the fortune that gives a second nature to the world. Ah, could 
I then think that it is in that second nature that the soul is 
ordained to seek its trials, and that the elements of human 
virtue find their harmonious place ! What I answered I know 
not. Neither know I how long I stood there listening to sounds 
which seemed to have no meaning, till there came other sounds 
which indeed woke my sense, and made my blood run cold to 
hear, — the tramp of the horses, the grating of the wheels, the 
voice at the door that said, “All was ready.” 

Then Fanny lifted her eyes, and they met mine ; and then 
involuntarily and hastily she moved a few steps towards me, and 
I clasped my right hand to my heart, as if to still its beating, 
and remained still. Lord Castleton had watched us both. I 
felt that watch was upon us, though I had till then shunned 
his looks: now, as I turned my eyes from Fanny’s, that look 
came full upon me — soft, compassionate, benignant. Suddenly, 
and with an unutterable expression of nobleness, the marquis 


376 


THE CAXTONS: 


turned to Lady Ellinor, and said— “ Pardon me for telling you 
an old story. A friend of mine — a man of my own years — had 
the temerity to hope that he might one day or other win the 
affections of a lady young enough to be his daughter, and whom 
circumstances and his own heart led him to prefer from all her 
sex. My friend had many rivals ; and you will not wonder — for 
you have seen the lady. Among them was a young gentleman, 
who for months had been an inmate of the same house — (Hush, 
Lady Ellinor ! you will hear me out ; the interest of my story is 
to come) — who respected the sanctity of the house he had 
entered, and had left it when he felt he loved, for he was poor 
and the lady rich. Some time after, this gentleman saved the 
lady from a great danger, and was , then on the eve of leaving 
England — (Hush ! again — hush !) My friend was present when 
these two young persons met, before the probable absence of 
many years, and so was the mother of the lady to whose hand 
he still hoped one day to aspire. He saw that his young rival 
wished to say ‘ Farewell ! ’ and without a witness ; that farewell 
was all that his honour and his reason could suffer him to say. 
My friend saw that the lady felt the natural gratitude for a 
great service, and the natural pity for a generous and unfortunate 
affection ; for so. Lady Ellinor, he only interpreted the sob that 
reached his ear ! What think you my friend did ? Your high 
mind at once conjectures. He said to himself — If I am ever to 
be blest with the heart which, in spite of disparity of years, I 
yet hope to win, let me show how entire is the trust that I 
place in its integrity and innocence : let the romance of first 
youth be closed — the farewell of pure hearts be spoken — un- 
embittered by the idle jealousies of one mean suspicion.’ With 
that thought, which yoti, Lady Ellinor, will never stoop to blame, 
he placed his hand on that of the noble mother, drew her gently 
towards the door, and calmly confident of the result, left these 
two young natures to the unwitnessed impulse of maiden honour 
and manly duty.” 

All this was said and done with a grace and earnestness that 
thrilled the listeners : word and action suited to each with so 
inimitable a harmony, that the spell was not broken till the 
voice ceased and the door closed. 

That mournful bliss for which I had so pined was vouchsafed: 
I was alone with her to whom, indeed, honour and reason for- 
bade me to say more than the last farewell. 

It was some time before we recovered — before we felt that 
we were alone. 





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A FAMILY PICTURE 


377 


Oh, ye moments, that I can now recall with so little sadness in 
the mellow and sweet remembrance, rest ever holy and undis- 
closed in the solemn recesses of the heart. Yes! — whatever 
confession of weakness was interchanged, we were not unworthy 
of the trust that permitted the mournful consolation of the 
parting. No trite love-tale — with vows not to be fulfilled, and 
hopes that the future must belie — mocked the realities of the 
life that lay before us. Yet on the confines of the dream we 
saw the day rising cold upon the world : and if — children as 
we well-nigh were — we shrunk somewhat from the light, we 
did not blaspheme the sun, and cry “ There is darkness in the 
dawn ! ** 

All that we attempted was to comfort and strengthen each 
other for that which must be : not seeking to conceal the grief 
we felt, but promising, with simple faith, to struggle against the 
grief. If vow were pledged between us — that was the vow — 
each for the other’s sake would strive to enjoy the blessings 
Heaven left us still. Well may I say that we were children ! I 
know not, in the broken words that passed between us, in the 
sorrowful hearts which those words revealed — I know not if 
there were that which they who own, in human passion, but 
the storm and the whirlwind, would call the love of maturer 
years — the love that gives fire to the song, and tragedy to the 
stage ; but I know that there was neither a word nor a thought 
which made the sorrow of the children a rebellion to the 
heavenly Father. 

And again the door unclosed, and Fanny walked with a firm 
step to her mother’s side, and, pausing there, extended her 
hand to me, and said, as I bent over it, “ Heaven will be with 
you ! ” 

A word from Lady Ellinor ; a frank smile from him — the 
rival ; one last, last glance from the soft eyes of Fanny, and then 
Solitude rushed upon me — rushed, as something visible, palpable, 
overpowering. I felt it in the glare of the sunbeam — I heard it 
in the breath of the air ! like a ghost it rose there — where she 
had filled the space with her presence but a moment before. 
A something seemed gone from the universe for ever ; a change 
like that of death passed through my being ; and when I woke 
to feel that my being lived again, I knew that it was my youth 
and its poet-land that were no more, and that I had passed, 
with an unconscious step, which never could retrace its way, into 
the hard world of laborious man ! 


PART XVI 


CHAPTER I 


/ 


T) LEASE, sir, be this note for you ? ” asked the waiter. 

“ For me — yes ; it is my name.” 

I did not recognise the handwriting, and yet the note was 
from one whose writing I had often seen. But formerly the 
writing was cramped, stiff, perpendicular (a feigned hand, though 
I guessed not it was feigned) ; now it was hasty, irregular, im- 
patient — scarce a letter formed, scarce a word that seemed 
finished — and yet strangely legible withal, as the handwriting 
of a bold man almost always is. I opened the note listlessly, 
and read — 

“I have watched for you all the morning. I saw her go. Well ! 
— I did not throw myself under the hoofs of the horses. I write 
this in a public-house, not far. Will you follow the bearer, and 
see once again the outcast whom all the rest of the world will 
shun ? ” 


Though I did not recognise the hand, there could be no 
doubt who was the writer. 

“The boy wants to know if there’s an answer,” said the 
waiter. 

I nodded, took up my hat, and left the room. A ragged boy 
was standing in the yard, and scarcely six words passed between 
us, before I was following him through a narrow lane that faced 
the inn, and terminated in a turnstile. Here the boy paused, 
and making me a sign to go on, went back his way whistling. 
I passed the turnstile, and found myself in a green field, with 
a row of stunted willows hanging over a narrow rill. I looked 
round, and saw Vivian (as I intend still to call him) half kneel- 
ing, and seemingly intent upon some object in the grass. 

My eye followed his mechanically. A young unfledged bird 
that had left the nest too soon, stood, all still and alone, on the 
bare short sward — its beak open as for food, its gaze fixed on 
us with a wistful stare. Methought there was something in the 

378 


A FAMILY PICTURE 379 

forlorn bird that softened me more to the forlorner youth, of 
whom it seemed a type. 

“ Now,” said Vivian, speaking half to himself, half to me, “ did 
the bird fall from the nest, or leave the nest at its own wild 
whim ? The parent does not protect it. Mind, I say not it is 
the parent’s fault — perhaps the fault is all with the wanderer. 
But, look you, though the parent is not here, the foe is ! — 
yonder, see ! ” 

And the young man pointed to a large brindled cat, that, 
kept back from its prey by our unwelcome neighbourhood, still 
remained watchful, a few paces off, stirring its tail gently back- 
wards and forwards, and with that stealthy look in its round 
eyes — dulled by the sun — half fierce, half frightened — which 
belongs to its tribe, when man comes between the devourer and 
the victim. 

“ I do see,” said I ; “ but a passing footstep has saved the 
bird ! ” 

“ Stop ! ” said Vivian, laying my hand on his own — and with 
his old bitter smile on his lip — “ stop ! do you think it mercy 
to save the bird ? What from and what for ? From a natural 
enemy — from a short pang and a quick death ? Fie ! — is not 
that better than slow starvation ? or, if you take more heed 
of it, than the prison-bars of a cage ? You cannot restore the 
nest, you cannot recall the parent ! Be wiser in your mercy : 
leave the bird to its gentlest fate ! ” 

I looked hard on Vivian : the lip had lost the bitter smile. He 
rose and turned away. I sought to take up the poor bird, but it 
did not know its friends, and ran from me, chirping piteously — 
ran towards the very jaws of the grim enemy. I was only just 
in time to scare away the beast, which sprang up a tree, and 
glared down through the hanging boughs. Then I followed 
the bird, and, as I followed, I heard, not knowing at first whence 
the sound came, a short, quick, tremulous note. Was it near ? 
was it far ? — from the earth ? in the sky ? — Poor parent bird 
like parent-love, it seemed now far and now near ; now on 
earth, now in sky ! 

And at last, quick and sudden, as if born of the space, lo ! 
the little wings hovered over me! 

The young bird halted, and I also. 

“ Come,” said I, “ ye have found each other at last ; settle 
it between you ! ” 

I went back to the outcast. 


380 


THE CAXTONS: 


CHAPTER II 


T3ISISTRATUS. — “ How came you to know we had stayed in 
the town?” 

Vivian. — “ Do you think I could remain where you left me ? 
I wandered out — wandered hither. Passing at dawn through 
yon streets, I saw the ostlers loitering by the gates ot the yard, 
overheard them talk, and so knew you were all at the inn — 
all ! ” [He sighed heavily.] 

Pisistratus. — “Your poor father is very ill! O cousin, how 
could you fling from you so much love ! ” 

Vivian. — “ Love ! — his ! — my father’s ! ” 

Pisistratus. — “ Do you really not believe, then, that your 
father loved you ? ” 

V ivian.' — “ If I had believed it, I had never left him. All the 
gold of the Indies had never bribed me to leave my mother ! ” 

Pisistratus. — “ This is indeed a strange misconception of 
yours. If we can remove it, all may be well yet. Need there 
now be any secrets between us ? [Persuasively]. — Sit down, and 
tell me all, cousin.” 

After some hesitation, Vivian complied ; and by the clearing of 
his brow, and the very tone of his voice, I felt sure that he was no 
longer seeking to disguise the truth. But, as I afterwards learned 
the father’s tale as well as now the son’s, so, instead of repeating 
Vivian’s words, which — not by design, but by the twist of a mind 
habitually wrong — distorted the facts, I will state what appears 
to me the real case, as between the parties so unhappily op- 
posed. Reader, pardon me if the recital be tedious. And if 
thou thinkest that I bear not hard enough on the erring hero of 
the story, remember, that he who recites judges as Austin’s son 
must judge of Roland’s. 


CHAPTER III 

VIVIAN 

AT THE ENTRANCE OF LIFE SITS THE MOTHER 

TT was during the war in Spain that a severe wound, and 
the fever which ensued, detained Roland at the house of a 
Spanish widow. His hostess had once been rich ; but her 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


381 


fortune had been ruined in the general calamities of the country. 
She had an only daughter, who assisted to nurse and tend the 
wounded Englishman ; and when the time approached for 
Roland’s departure, the frank grief of the young Ramouna 
betrayed the impression that the guest had made upon her 
affections. Much of gratitude, and something, it might be, of 
an exquisite sense of honour, aided, in Roland’s breast, the 
charm naturally produced by the beauty of his young nurse, 
and the knightly compassion he felt for her ruined fortunes and 
desolate condition. 

In one of those hasty impulses common to a generous nature 
— and which too often fatally vindicate the rank of Prudence 
amidst the tutelary Powers of Life — Roland committed the 
error of marriage with a girl of whose connections he knew 
nothing, and of whose nature little more than its warm spon- 
taneous susceptibility. In a few days subsequent to these rash 
nuptials, Roland rejoined the march of the army ; nor was 
he able to return to Spain till after the crowning victory of 
Waterloo. 

Maimed by the loss of a limb, and with the scars of many a 
noble wound still fresh, Roland then hastened to a home, the 
dreams of which had soothed the bed of pain, and now replaced 
the earlier visions of renown. During his absence a son had 
been born to him — a son whom he might rear to take the place 
he had left in his country’s service ; to renew, in some future 
fields, a career that had failed the romance of his own antique 
and chivalrous ambition. As soon as that news had reached 
him, his care had been to provide an English nurse for the 
infant — so that, with the first sounds of the mother’s endear- 
ments, the child might yet hear a voice from the father’s land. 
A female relation of Bolt’s had settled in Spain, and was in- 
duced to undertake this duty. Natural as this appointment 
was to a man so devotedly English, it displeased his wild and 
passionate Ramouna. She had that mother’s jealousy, strongest 
in minds uneducated : she had also that peculiar pride which 
belongs to her country-people, of every rank and condition ; the 
jealousy and the pride were both wounded by the sight of the 
English nurse at the child’s cradle. 

That Roland, on regaining his Spanish hearth, should be 
disappointed in his expectations of the happiness awaiting him 
there, was the inevitable condition of such a marriage; since, 
not the less for his military bluntness, Roland had that refine- 
ment of feeling, perhaps over-fastidious, which belongs to all 


382 


THE CAXTONS: 


natures essentially poetic : and as the first illusions of love died 
away, there could have been little indeed congenial to his 
stately temper in one divided from him by an utter absence 
of education, and by the strong, but nameless, distinctions of 
national views and manners. The disappointment, probably, 
however, went deeper than that which usually attends an ill- 
assorted union ; for, instead of bringing his wife to his old 
Tower (an expatriation which she would doubtless have resisted 
to the utmost), he accepted, maimed as he was, not very long 
after his return to Spain, the offer of a military post under 
Ferdinand. The Cavalier doctrines and intense loyalty of 
Roland attached him, without reflection, to the service of a 
throne which the English arms had contributed to establish ; 
while the extreme unpopularity of the Constitutional Party 
in Spain, and the stigma of irreligion fixed to it by the priests, 
aided to foster Roland’s belief that he was supporting a beloved 
king against the professors of those revolutionary and Jaco- 
binical doctrines, which to him were the very atheism of politics. 
The experience of a few years in the service of a bigot so con- 
temptible as Ferdinand, whose highest object of patriotism was 
the restoration of the Inquisition, added another disappointment 
to those which had already embittered the life of a man who 
had seen in the grand hero of Cervantes no follies to satirise, 
but high virtues to imitate. Poor Quixote himself — he came 
mournfully back to his La Mancha, with no other reward for 
his knight-errantry than a decoration which he disdained to 
place beside his simple Waterloo medal, and a grade for which 
he would have blushed to resign his more modest, but more 
honourable English dignity. 

But, still weaving hopes, the sanguine man returned to his 
Penates. His child now had grown from infancy into boyhood 
— the child would pass naturally into his care. Delightful 
occupation ! — At the thought, home smiled again. 

Now behold the most pernicious circumstance in this ill- 
omened connection. 

The father of Ramouna had been one of that strange and 
mysterious race which presents in Spain so many features dis- 
tinct from the characteristics of its kindred tribes in more 
civilised lands. The Gitano, or gipsy of Spain, is not the mere 
vagrant we see on our commons and roadsides. Retaining, 
indeed, much of his lawless principles and predatory inclina- 
tions, he lives often in towns, exercises various callings, and 
not unfrequently becomes rich. A wealthy Gitano had married 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


383 


a Spanish woman : 1 Roland’s wife had been the offspring of 
this marriage. The Gitano had died while Ramouna was yet 
extremely young, and her childhood had been free from the 
influences of her paternal kindred. But, though her mother, 
retaining her own religion, had brought up Ramouna in the 
same faith, pure from the godless creed of the Gitano — and, 
at her husband’s death, had separated herself wholly from his 
tribe — still she had lost caste with her own kin and people. 
And while struggling to regain it, the fortune, which made 
her sole chance of success in that attempt, was swept away, 
so that she had remained apart and solitary, and could bring 
no friends to cheer the solitude of Ramouna during Roland’s 
absence. But, while my uncle was still in the service of 
Ferdinand, the widow died ; and then the only relatives who 
came round Ramouna were her father’s kindred. They had 
not ventured to claim affinity while her mother lived ; and they 
did so now by attentions and caresses to her son. This opened 
to them at once Ramouna’s heart and doors. Meanwhile the 
English nurse — who, in spite of all that could render her abode 
odious to her, had, from strong love to her charge, stoutly 
maintained her post — died, a few weeks after Ramouna’s mother, 
and no healthful influence remained to counteract those baneful 
ones to which the heir of the honest old Caxtons was subject. 
But Roland returned home in a humour to be pleased with 
all things. Joyously he clasped his wife to his breast, and 
thought, with self-reproach, that he had forborne too little, 
and exacted too much — he would be wiser now. Delightedly 
he acknowledged the beauty, the intelligence, and manly bear- 
ing of the boy, who played with his sword-knot, and ran off with 
his pistols as a prize. 

The news of the Englishman’s arrival at first kept the lawless 
kinsfolk from the house : but they were fond of the boy, and 
the boy of them, and interviews between him and his wild 
comrades, if stolen, were not less frequent. Gradually Roland’s 
eyes became opened. As, in habitual intercourse, the boy 
abandoned the reserve which awe and cunning at first imposed, 
Roland was inexpressibly shocked at the bold principles his son 
affected, and at his utter incapacity even to comprehend that 
plain honesty and that frank honour which, to the English 
soldier, seemed ideas innate and heaven-planted. Soon after- 

1 A Spaniard very rarely indeed marries a Gitano, or female gipsy. But 
occasionally (observes Mr. Borrow) a wealthy Gitano marries a Spanish 
female. 


384 . 


THE CAXTONS: 


wards, Roland found that a system of plunder was carried on 
in his household, and tracked it to the connivance of the wife 
and the agency of his son, for the benefit of lazy bravos and 
dissolute vagrants. A more patient man than Roland might 
well have been exasperated — a more wary man confounded by 
this discovery. He took the natural step — perhaps insisting on 
it too summarily — perhaps not allowing enough for the un- 
cultured mind and lively passions of his wife — he ordered her 
instantly to prepare to accompany him from the place, and to 
abandon all communication with her kindred. 

A vehement refusal ensued ; but Roland was not a man to 
give up such a point, and at length a false submission, and a 
feigned repentance, soothed his resentment and obtained his 
pardon. They moved several miles from the place ; but where 
they moved, there, some at least, and those the worst, of the 
baleful brood, stealthily followed. Whatever Ramouna’s earlier 
love for Roland had been, it had evidently long ceased, in the 
thorough want of sympathy between them, and in that absence 
which, if it renews a strong affection, destroys an affection 
already weakened. But the mother and son adored each other 
with all the strength of their strong, wild natures. Even under 
ordinary circumstances the father’s influence over a boy yet in 
childhood is exerted in vain, if the mother lend herself to baffle 
it. And in this miserable position, what chance had the blunt, 
stern, honest Roland (separated from his son during the most 
ductile years of infancy) against the ascendency of a mother 
who humoured all the faults, and gratified all the wishes, of 
her darling ? 

In his despair, Roland let fall the threat that, if thus thwarted, 
it would become his duty to withdraw his son from the mother. 
This threat instantly hardened both hearts against him. The 
wife represented Roland to the boy as a tyrant, as an enemy — 
as one who had destroyed all the happiness they had before 
enjoyed in each other — as one whose severity showed that he 
hated his own child ; and the boy believed her. In his own 
house a firm union was formed against Roland, and protected 
by the cunning which is the force of the weak against the 
strong. 

In spite of all, Roland could never forget the tenderness with 
which the young nurse had watched over the wounded man, 
nor the love — genuine for the hour, though not drawn from 
the feelings which withstand the wear and tear of life — that 
lips so beautiful had pledged him in the bygone days. These 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


385 


thoughts must have come perpetually between his feelings and 
his judgment, to embitter still more his position — to harass 
still more his heart. And if, by the strength of that sense of 
duty which made the force of his character, he could have 
strung himself to the fulfilment of the threat, humanity, at all 
events, compelled him to delay it — his wife promised to be 
again a mother. Blanche was born. How could he take the 
infant from the mother’s breast, or abandon the daughter to 
the fatal influences from which only, by so violent an effort, he 
could free the son ? 

No wonder, poor Roland, that those deep furrows contracted 
thy bold front, and thy hair grew grey before its time. 

Fortunately, perhaps, for all parties, Roland’s wife died while 
Blanche was still an infant. She was taken ill of a fever — she 
died delirious, clasping her boy to her breast, and praying the 
saints to protect him from his cruel father. How often that 
deathbed haunted the son, and justified his belief that there 
was no parent’s love in the heart which was now his sole shelter 
from the world, and the “ pelting of its pitiless rain.” Again I 
say, poor Roland ! for I know that, in that harsh, unloving dis- 
rupture of such solemn ties, thy large, generous heart forgot its 
wrongs, again didst thou see tender eyes bending over the 
wounded stranger — again hear low murmurs breathe the warm 
weakness which the women of the south deem it no shame to 
own. And now did it all end in those ravings of hate, and in 
that glazing gaze of terror ! 


CHAPTER IV 


THE PRECEPTOR 

T)OLAND removed to France, and fixed his abode in the 
environs of Paris. He placed Blanche at a convent in the 
immediate neighbourhood, going to see her daily, and gave him- 
self up to the education of his son. The boy was apt to learn, 
but to unlearn was here the arduous task — and for that task it 
would have needed either the passionless experience, the ex- 
quisite forbearance of a practised teacher, or the love and con- 
fidence, and yielding heart of a believing pupil. Roland felt 
that he was not the man to be the teacher, and that his son’s 
heart remained obstinately closed to him. He looked round, 

2 B 


386 


THE CAXTONS: 


and found at the other side of Paris what seemed a suitable 
preceptor— a young Frenchman of some distinction in letters, 
more especially in science, with all a Frenchman’s eloquence of 
talk, full of high-sounding sentiments that pleased the romantic 
enthusiasm of the Captain ; so Roland, with sanguine hopes, 
confided his son to this man’s care. The boy’s natural quickness 
mastered readily all that pleased his taste ; he learned to speak 
and write French with rare felicity and precision. His tenacious 
memory, and those flexile organs in which the talent for 
languages is placed, served, with the help of an English master, 
to revive his earlier knowledge of his father’s tongue, and to 
enable him to speak it with fluent correctness — though there 
was always in his accent something which had struck me as 
strange ; but not suspecting it to be foreign, I had thought it 
a theatrical affectation. He did not go far into science — little 
farther, perhaps, than a smattering of French mathematics ; but 
he acquired a remarkable facility and promptitude in calculation. 
He devoured eagerly the light reading thrown in his way, and 
picked up thence that kind of knowledge which novels and 
plays afford, for good or evil, according as the novel or the play 
elevates the understanding and ennobles the passions, or merely 
corrupts the fancy, and lowers the standard of human nature. 
But of all that Roland desired him to be taught, the son re- 
mained as ignorant as before. Among the other misfortunes 
of this ominous marriage, Roland’s wife had possessed all the 
superstitions of a Roman Catholic Spaniard, and with these the 
boy had unconsciously intermingled doctrines far more dreary, 
imbibed from the dark paganism of the Gitanos. 

Roland had sought a Protestant for his son’s tutor. The pre- 
ceptor was nominally a Protestant — a biting derider of all super- 
stitions, indeed ! He was such a Protestant as some defender 
of Voltaire’s religion says the Great Wit would have been had 
he lived in a Protestant country. The Frenchman laughed the 
boy out of his superstitions, to leave behind them the sneering 
scepticism of the Encyclopedic, without those redeeming ethics 
on which all sects of philosophy are agreed, but which, un- 
happily, it requires a philosopher to comprehend. 

This preceptor was, doubtless, not aware of the mischief he 
was doing ; and for the rest, he taught his pupil after his own 
system — a mild and plausible one, very much like the system 
we at home are recommended to adopt — “ Teach the under- 
standing, — all else will follow ; ” “ Learn to read something, and 
it will all come right ; ” “ Follow the bias of the pupil’s mind ; 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


387 


thus you develop genius, not thwart it.” Mind, understanding, 
genius — fine things ! But, to educate the whole man, you must 
educate something more than these. Not for want of mind, 
understanding, genius, have Borgias and Neros left their names 
as monuments of horror to mankind. Where, in all this teaching, 
w T as one lesson to warm the heart, and guide the soul ? 

“ Oh, mother mine ! that the boy had stood by thy knee, and 
heard from thy lips why life was given us, in what life shall end, 
and how heaven stands open to us night and day ! Oh, father 
mine ; that thou hadst been his preceptor, not in book-learning, 
but the heart’s simple wisdom ! Oh that he had learned from 
thee, in parables closed with practice, the happiness of self- 
sacrifice, and how “ good deeds should repair the bad ! ” 

It was the misfortune of this boy, with his daring and his 
beauty, that there was in his exterior and his manner that which 
attracted indulgent interest, and a sort of compassionate admira- 
tion. The Frenchman liked him — believed his story — thought 
him ill-treated by that hard-visaged English soldier. All English 
people were so disagreeable, particularly English soldiers ; and 
the Captain once mortally offended the Frenchman by calling 
Vilainton un grand homme, and denying, with brutal indignation, 
that the English had poisoned Napoleon ! So, instead of teach- 
ing the son to love and revere his father, the Frenchman 
shrugged his shoulders when the boy broke into some unfilial 
complaint, and at most said, “ Main, cher enfant , ton pere est 
Anglais, — c est tout dire.” Meanwhile, as the child sprang rapidly 
into precocious youth, he was permitted a liberty in his hours 
of leisure of which he availed himself with all the zest of his 
earlier habits and adventurous temper. He formed acquain- 
tances among the loose young haunters of cafes and spendthrifts 
of that capital — the wits ! He became an excellent swordsman 
and pistol-shot — adroit in all games in which skill helps fortune. 
He learned betimes to furnish himself with money, by the cards 
and the billiard-balls. 

But, delighted with the easy home he had obtained, he took 
care to school his features and smooth his manner in his father’s 
visits — to make the most of what he had learned of less ignoble 
knowledge, and, with his characteristic imitativeness, to cite the 
finest sentiments he had found in his plays and novels. What 
father is not credulous ? Roland believed, and wept tears of 
joy. And now he thought the time was come to take back 
the boy — to return with a worthy heir to the old Tower. He 
thanked and blessed the tutor — he took the son. But under 


388 


THE CAXTONS : 


pretence that lie had yet some things to master, whether in 
book knowledge or manly accomplishments, the youth begged 
his father, at all events, not yet to return to England — to let 
him attend his tutor daily for some months. Roland consented, 
moved from his old quarters, and took a lodging for both in the 
same suburb as that in which the teacher resided. But soon, 
when they were under one roof, the boy’s habitual tastes, and 
his repugnance to all paternal authority, were betrayed. To do 
my unhappy cousin justice (such as that justice is), though he 
had the cunning for a short disguise, he had not the hypocrisy 
to maintain systematic deceit. He could play a part for a while, 
from an exulting joy in his own address ; but he could not wear 
a mask with the patience of cold-blooded dissimulation. Why 
enter into painful details, so easily divined by the intelligent 
reader ? The faults of the son were precisely those to which 
Roland would be least indulgent. To the ordinary scrapes of 
high-spirited boyhood, no father, I am sure, would have been 
more lenient ; but to anything that seemed low, petty — that 
grated on him as a gentleman and soldier — there, not for worlds 
would I have braved the darkness of his frown, and the woe 
that spoke like scorn in his voice. And when, after all warning 
and prohibition were in vain, Roland found his son in the middle 
of the night, in a resort of gamblers and sharpers, carrying all 
before him with his cue, in the full flush of triumph, and a great 
heap of five-franc pieces before him, you may conceive with 
what wrath the proud, hasty, passionate man drove out, cane in 
hand, the obscene associates, flinging after them the son’s ill- 
gotten gains ; and with what resentful humiliation the son was 
compelled to follow the father home. Then Roland took the 
boy to England, but not to the old Tower ; that hearth of his 
ancestors was still too sacred for the footsteps of the vagrant 
heir ! 


CHAPTER V 

THE HEARTH WITHOUT TRUST, AND THE WORLD WITHOUT A GUIDE 

^/^ND then, vainly grasping at every argument his blunt sense 
could suggest — then talked Roland much and grandly of 
the duties men owed — even if they threw off all love to their 
father — still to their father’s name ; and then his pride, always 
so lively, grew irritable and harsh, and seemed, no doubt, to the 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


389 


perverted ears of the son, unlovely and unloving. And that 
pride, without serving one purpose of good, did yet more 
mischief : for the youth caught the disease, but in a wrong way. 
And he said to himself — 

“ Ho, then, my father is a great man, with all these ancestors 
and big words ! And he has lands and a castle — and yet how 
miserably we live, and how he stints me ! But, if he has cause 
for pride in all these dead men, why, so have I. And are these 
lodgings, these appurtenances, fit for the ‘ gentleman ’ he says 
I am ? ” 

Even in England, the gipsy blood broke out as before, and the 
youth found vagrant associates. Heaven knows how or where ; 
and strange-looking forms, gaudily shabby and disreputably 
smart, were seen lurking in the corner of the street, or peering 
in at the window", slinking off if they saw Roland — and Roland 
could not stoop to be a spy. And the son’s heart grew harder 
and harder against his father, and his father’s face now never 
smiled on him. Then bills came in, and duns knocked at the 
door. Bills and duns to a man who shrunk from the thought of 
a debt as an ermine from a spot on its fur ! And the son’s short 
answer to remonstrance was, — “Am I not a gentleman ?- these 
are the things gentlemen require.” Then perhaps Roland 
remembered the experiment of his French friend, and left his 
bureau unlocked, and said, “ Ruin me if you will, but no debts. 
There is money in those drawers — they are unlocked.” That 
trust would for ever have cured of extravagance a youth with a 
high and delicate sense of honour : the pupil of the Gitanos did 
not understand the trust ; he thought it conveyed a natural, 
though ungracious permission to take out what he wanted — and 
he took ! To Roland this seemed a theft, and a theft of the 
coarsest kind ; but when he so said, the son started indignant, 
and saw in that which had been so touching an appeal to his 
honour, but a trap to decoy him into disgrace. In short, 
neither could understand the other. Roland forbade his son to 
stir from the house ; and the young man the same night let 
himself out, and stole forth into the wide world, to enjoy or 
defy it in his own wild way. 

It would be tedious to follow him through his various adven- 
tures and experiments on fortune (even if I knew them all, 
which I do not). And now' putting altogether aside his right 
name, which he had voluntarily abandoned, and not embarrass- 
ing the reader with the earlier aliases assumed, I shall give to 
my unfortunate kinsman the name by which I first knew him, 


390 


THE CAXTONS : 


and continue to do so until — Heaven grant the time may come ! 
— having first redeemed, he may reclaim, his own. It was in 
joining a set of strolling players that Vivian became acquainted 
with Peacock ; and that worthy, who had many strings to his 
bow, soon grew aware of Vivian’s extraordinary skill with the 
cue, and saw therein a better mode of making their joint 
fortunes than the boards of an itinerant Thespis furnished to 
either. Vivian listened to him, and it was while their intimacy 
was most fresh that I met them on the high-road. That chance 
meeting produced (if I may be allowed to believe his assurance) 
a strong, and, for the moment, a salutary effect upon Vivian. 
The comparative innocence and freshness of a boy’s mind were 
new to him ; the elastic healthful spirits with which those gifts 
were accompanied startled him, by the contrast to his own 
forced gaiety and secret gloom. And this boy was his own 
cousin ! 

Coming afterwards to London, he adventured inquiry at the 
hotel in the Strand at which I had given my address ; learned 
where we were ; and passing one night into the street, saw 
my uncle at the window — to recognise and to fly from him. 
Having then some money at his disposal, he broke off abruptly 
from the set in which he had been thrown. He had resolved 
to return to France — he would try for a more respectable mode 
of existence. He had not found happiness in that liberty he 
had won, nor room for the ambition that began to gnaw him, in 
those pursuits from which his father had vainly warned him. 
His most reputable friend was his old tutor ; he would go to 
him. He went ; but the tutor was now married, and was him- 
self a father, and that made a wonderful alteration in his 
practical ethics. It was no longer moral to aid the son in 
rebellion to his father. Vivian evinced his usual sarcastic 
haughtiness at the reception he met, and was requested civilly 
to leave the house. Then again he flung himself on his wits at 
Paris. But there were plenty of wits there sharper than his 
own. He got into some quarrel with the police — not, indeed, 
for any dishonest practices of his own, but from an unwary 
acquaintance with others less scrupulous, and deemed it prudent 
to quit France. Thus had I met him again, forlorn and ragged, 
in the streets of London. 

Meanwhile Roland, after the first vain search, had yielded to 
the indignation and disgust that had long rankled within him. 
His son had thrown off his authority, because it preserved him 
from dishonour. His ideas of discipline were stern, and patience 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


391 


had been well-nigh crushed out of his heart. He thought he 
could bear to resign his son to his fate— to disown him, and to 
say, “I have no more a son.” It was in this mood that he had 
first visited our house. But when, on that memorable night in 
which he had narrated to his thrilling listeners the dark tale of 
a fellow-sufferer’s woe and crime — betraying in the tale, to my 
father’s quick sympathy, his own sorrow and passion — it did not 
need much of his gentler brother’s subtle art to learn or guess 
the whole, nor much of Austin’s mild persuasion to convince 
Roland that he had not yet exhausted all efforts to track the 
wanderer and reclaim the erring child. Then he had gone to 
London — then he had sought every spot which the outcast 
would probably haunt — then had he saved and pinched from 
his own necessities to have wherewithal to enter theatres and 
gaming-houses, and fee the agencies of police ; then had he 
seen the form for which he had watched and pined, in the 
street below his window, and cried, in a joyous delusion, “ He 
repents ! ” One day a letter reached my uncle, through his 
banker’s, from the French tutor (who knew of no other means 
of tracing Roland but through the house by which his salary 
had been paid), informing him of his son’s visit. Roland started 
instantly for Paris. Arriving there, he could only learn of his 
son through the police, and from them only learn that he had 
been seen in the company of accomplished swindlers, who were 
already in the hands of justice; but that the youth himself, 
whom there was nothing to criminate, had been suffered to 
quit Paris, and had taken, it was supposed, the road to England. 
Then, at last, the poor Captain’s stout heart gave way. His son 
the companion of swindlers ! — could he be sure that he was not 
their accomplice ? If not yet, how small the step between 
companionship and participation ! He took the child left him 
still from the convent, returned to England, and arrived there 
to be seized with fever and delirium — apparently on the same 
day (or a day before that on which) the son had dropped, 
shelterless and penniless, on the stones of London. 


392 


THE CAXTONS : 


CHAPTER VI 

THE ATTEMPT TO BUILD A TEMPLE TO FORTUNE OUT OF 
THE RUINS OF HOME 

T)UT,” said Vivian, pursuing his tale, "but when you came to 
^ my aid, not knowing me — when you relieved me — when 
from your own lips, for the first time, I heard words that praised 
me, and for qualities that implied I might yet be f worth much * 
— Ah ! (he added mournfully) I remember the very words — a 
new light broke upon me — struggling and dim, but light still. 
The ambition with which I had sought the truckling Frenchman 
revived, and took worthier and more definite form. I would lift 
myself above the mire, make a name, rise in life ! ” 

Vivian’s head drooped, but he raised it quickly, and laughed 
his low, mocking laugh. What follows of this tale may be told 
succinctly. Retaining his bitter feelings towards his father, he 
resolved to continue his incognito — he gave himself a name 
likely to mislead conjecture, if I conversed of him to my family, 
since he knew that Roland was aware that a Colonel Vivian had 
been afflicted by a runaway son — and, indeed, the talk upon 
that subject had first put the notion of flight into his own head. 
He caught at the idea of becoming known to Trevanion ; but 
he saw reasons to forbid his being indebted to me for the intro- 
duction — to forbid my knowing where he was : sooner or later 
that knowledge could scarcely fail to end in the discovery of his 
real name. Fortunately, as he deemed, for the plans he began 
to meditate, we were all leaving London — he should have the 
stage to himself. And then boldly he resolved upon what he 
regarded as the master-scheme of life — viz., to obtain a small 
pecuniary independence, and to emancipate himself formally 
and entirely from his father’s control. Aware of poor Roland’s 
chivalrous reverence for his name, firmly persuaded that Roland 
had no love for the son, but only the dread that the son might 
disgrace him, he determined to avail himself of his father’s 
prejudices in order to effect his purpose. 

He wrote a short letter to Roland (that letter which had 
given the poor man so sanguine a joy — that letter after reading 
which he had said to Blanche, " pray for me ”), stating simply 
that he wished to see his father ; and naming a tavern in the 
City for the meeting. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


393 


The interview took place. And when Roland, love and for- 
giveness in his heart, — but (who shall blame him ?) dignity on 
his brow and rebuke in his eye — approached, ready at a word to 
fling himself on the boy’s breast, Vivian, seeing only the outer 
signs, and interpreting them by his own sentiments — recoiled, 
folded his arms on his bosom, and said coldly, " Spare me 
reproach, sir — it is unavailing. I seek you only to propose that 
you shall save your name and resign your son.” 

Then, intent perhaps but to gain his object, the unhappy 
youth declared his fixed determination never to live with his 
hither, never to acquiesce in his authority, resolutely to pursue 
his own career, whatever that career might be, explaining none 
of the circumstances that appeared most in his disfavour— rather, 
perhaps, thinking that, the worse his father judged of him, the 
more chance he had to achieve his purpose. " All I ask of you,” 
he said, “ is this : Give me the least you can afford to preserve 
me from the temptation to rob, or the necessity to starve ; and 
I, in my turn, promise never to molest you in life — never to 
degrade you in my death ; whatever my misdeeds, they will 
never reflect on yourself, for you shall never recognise the 
misdoer ! The name you prize so highly shall be spared.” 
Sickened and revolted, Roland attempted no argument — there 
was that in the son’s cold manner which shut out hope, and 
against which his pride rose indignant. A meeker man might 
have remonstrated, implored, and wept — that was not in Roland’s 
nature. He had but the choice of three evils, to say to his son : 
"Fool, I command thee to follow me!” or say, "Wretch, since 
thou wouldst cast me off as a stranger, as a stranger I say to 
thee — Go, starve or rob as thou wilt ! ” or lastly, to bow his 
proud head, stunned by the blow, and say, "Thou refusest me 
the obedience of the son, thou demandest to be as the dead to 
me. I can control thee not from vice, I can guide thee not 
to virtue. Thou wouldst sell me the name I have inherited 
stainless, and have as stainless borne. Be it so ! — Name thy 
price ! ” 

And something like this last was the father’s choice. 

He listened and was long silent ; and then he said slowly, 
" Pause before you decide.” 

" I have paused long — my decision is made ! this is the last 
time we meet. I see before me now the way to fortune, fairly, 
honourably ; you can aid me in it only in the way I have said. 
Reject me now, and the option may never come again to either ! ” 

And then Roland said to himself, " I have spared and saved 


394 


THE CAXTONS : 


for this son } what care I for aught else than enough to live 
without debt, creep into a corner, and await the grave ! And 
the more I can give, why, the better chance that he will abjure 
the vile associate and the desperate course.” And so, out of 
his small income, Roland surrendered to the rebel child more 
than the half. 

Vivian was not aware of his father’s fortune — he did not 
suppose the sum of two hundred pounds a year was an allowance 
so disproportioned to Roland’s means — yet when it was named, 
even he was struck by the generosity of one to whom he him- 
self had given the right to say, “ I take thee at thy word ; f just 
enough not to starve ! ’ ” 

But then that hateful cynicism which, caught from bad men 
and evil books, he called “ knowledge of the world,” made him 
think “ it is not for me, it is only for his name ; ” and he said 
aloud, “ I accept these terms, sir ; here is the address of a 
solicitor with whom yours can settle them. Farewell for ever.” 

At those last words Roland started, and stretched out his 
arms vaguely like a blind man. But Vivian had already thrown 
open the window (the room was on the ground floor) and sprang 
upon the sill. “ Farewell,” he repeated ; “ tell the world I am 
dead.” 

He leapt into the street, and the father drew in the out- 
stretched arms, smote his heart, and said — “ Well, then, my task 
in the world of man is over ! I will back to the old ruin — the 
wreck to the wrecks — and the sight of tombs I have at least 
rescued from dishonour shall comfort me for all ! ” 


CHAPTER VII 

THE RESULTS PERVERTED AMBITION SELFISH PASSION THE 

INTELLECT DISTORTED BY THE CROOKEDNESS OF THE HEART 


■yiVIAN’S schemes thus prospered. He had an income that 
permitted him the outward appearances of a gentleman — 
an independence, modest indeed, but independence still. We 
were all gone from London. One letter to me with the post- 
mark of the town near which Colonel Vivian lived, sufficed to 
confirm my belief in his parentage, and in his return to his 
friends. He then presented himself to Trevanion as the young 
man whose pen I had employed in the member’s service ; and 


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A FAMILY PICTURE 


395 


knowing that I had never mentioned his name to Trevanion — 
for, without Vivian’s permission, I should not, considering his 
apparent trust in me, have deemed myself authorised to do so 
— he took that of Gower, which he selected, haphazard, from 
an old Court Guide, as having the advantage — in common with 
most names borne by the higher nobility of England — of not 
being confined, as the ancient names of untitled gentlemen 
usually are, to the members of a single family. And when, with 
his wonted adaptability and suppleness, he had contrived to lay 
aside, or smooth over, whatever in his manners would be calcu- 
lated to displease Trevanion, and had succeeded in exciting the 
interest which that generous statesman always conceived for 
ability, he owned, candidly, one day, in the presence of Lady 
Ellinor — for his experience had taught him the comparative 
ease with which the sympathy of woman is enlisted in anything 
that appeals to the imagination, or seems out of the ordinary 
beat of life — that he had reasons for concealing his connections 
for the present — that he had cause to believe I suspected what 
they were, and from mistaken regard for his welfare, might 
acquaint his relations with his whereabout. He therefore 
begged Trevanion, if the latter had occasion to write to me, not 
to mention him. This promise Trevanion gave, though re- 
luctantly ; for the confidence volunteered to him seemed to 
exact the promise ; but as he detested mystery of all kinds, the 
avowal might have been fatal to any farther acquaintance ; and 
under auspices so doubtful, there would have been no chance 
of his obtaining that intimacy in Trevanion’s house which he 
desired to establish, but for an accident which at once opened 
that house to him almost as a home. 

Vivian had always treasured a lock of his mother’s hair, cut 
off on her deathbed ; and when he was at his French tutor’s, 
his first pocket-money had been devoted to the purchase of a 
locket, on which he had caused to be inscribed his own name 
and his mother’s. Through all his wanderings he had worn 
this relic : and in the direst pangs of want, no hunger had been 
keen enough to induce him to part with it. Now, one morning 
the ribbon that suspended the locket gave way, and his eye 
resting on the names inscribed on the gold, he thought, in his 
own vague sense of right, imperfect as it was, that his compact 
with his father obliged him to have the names erased. He took 
it to a jeweller in Piccadilly for that purpose, and gave the 
requisite order, not taking notice of a lady in the further part of 
the shop. The locket was still on the counter after Vivian had 


396 


THE CAXTONS: 


left, when the lady coming forward observed it,, and saw the 
names on the surface. She had been struck by the peculiar 
tone of the voice, which she had heard before ; and that very 
day Mr. Gower received a note from Lady Ellinor Trevanion, 
requesting to see him. Much wondering, he went. Presenting 
him with the locket, she said, smiling, "There is only one 
gentleman in the world who calls himself De Caxton, unless it 
be his son. Ah ! I see now why you wished to conceal yourself 
from my friend Pisistratus. But how is this ? can you have any 
difference with your father ? Confide in me, or it is my duty to 
write to him.” 

Even Vivian’s powers of dissimulation abandoned him, thus 
taken by surprise. He saw no alternative but to trust Lady 
Ellinor with his secret, and implore her to respect it. And 
then he spoke bitterly of his father’s dislike to him, and his own 
resolution to prove the injustice of that dislike by the position 
he would himself establish in the world. At present his father 
believed him dead, and perhaps was not ill-pleased to think so. 
He would not dispel that belief, till he could redeem any boyish 
errors, and force his family to be proud to acknowledge him. 

Though Lady Ellinor was slow to believe that Roland could 
dislike his son, she could yet readily believe that he was harsh 
and choleric, with a soldier’s high notions of discipline : the 
young man’s story moved her, his determination pleased her 
own high spirit ; — always with a touch of romance in her, and 
always sympathising with each desire of ambition, she entered 
into Vivian’s aspirations with an alacrity that surprised himself. 
She was charmed with the idea of ministering to the son’s 
fortunes, and ultimately reconciling him to the father, — through 
her own agency ; — it would atone for any fault of which Roland 
could accuse herself in the old time. 

She undertook to impart the secret to Trevanion, for she 
would have no secrets from him, and to secure his acquiescence 
in its concealment from all others. 

And here I must a little digress from the chronological course 
of my explanatory narrative, to inform the reader that, when 
Lady Ellinor had her interview with Roland, she had been 
repelled by the sternness of his manner from divulging Vivian’s 
secret. But on her first attempt to sound or conciliate him, 
she had begun with some eulogies on Trevanion’s new friend 
and assistant, Mr. Gower, and had awakened Roland’s suspicions 
of that person’s identity with his son— suspicions which had 
given him a terrible interest in our joint deliverance of Miss 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


397 


Trevanion. But so heroically had the poor soldier sought to 
resist his own fears, that on the way he shrank to put to me 
the questions that might paralyse the energies which, whatever 
the answer, were then so much needed. “For,” said he to 
my father, “ I felt the blood surging to my temples ; and if I 
had said to Pisistratus, f Describe this man/ and by his descrip- 
tion I had recognised my son, and dreaded lest I might be too 
late to arrest him from so treacherous a crime, my brain w r ould 
have given way ; — and so I did not care ! ” 

I return to the thread of my story. From the time that 
Vivian confided in Lady Ellinor, the way was cleared to his 
most ambitious hopes ; and though his acquisitions were not 
sufficiently scholastic and various to permit Trevanion to select 
him as a secretary, yet, short of sleeping at the house, he was 
little less intimate there than I had been. 

Among Vivian’s schemes of advancement, that of winning the 
hand and heart of the great heiress had not been one of the 
least sanguine. This hope was annulled when, not long after 
his intimacy at her father’s house, she became engaged to 
young Lord Castleton. But he could not see Miss Trevanion 
with impunity (alas ! who, with a heart yet free, could be in- 
sensible to attractions so winning ?) He permitted the love — 
such love as his wild, half-educated, half-savage nature acknow- 
ledged — to creep into his soul — to master it ; but he felt no 
hope, cherished no scheme while the young lord lived. With 
the death of her betrothed, Fanny was free ; then he began to 
hope — not yet to scheme. Accidently he encountered Peacock 
— partly from the levity that accompanied a false good-nature 
that was constitutional with him, partly from a vague idea that 
the man might be useful, Vivian established his quondam 
associate in the service of Trevanion. Peacock soon gained the 
secret of Vivian’s love for Fanny, and, dazzled by the advantages 
that a marriage with Miss Trevanion would confer on his patron, 
and might reflect on himself, and delighted at an occasion to 
exercise his dramatic accomplishments on the stage of real life, 
he soon practised the lesson that the theatres had taught him — 
viz., to make a sub-intrigue between maid and valet serve the 
schemes and ensure the success of the lover. If Vivian had 
some opportunities to imply his admiration, Miss Trevanion 
gave him none to plead his cause. But the softness of her 
nature, and that graceful kindness which surrounded her like 
an atmosphere, emanating unconsciously from a girl’s harmless 
desire to please, tended to deceive him. His own personal 


398 


THE CAXTONS: 


gifts were so rare, and, in his wandering life, the effect they 
had produced had so increased his reliance on them, that he 
thought he wanted but the fair opportunity to woo in order 
to win. In this state of mental intoxication, Trevanion having 

provided for his Scotch secretary, took him to Lord N ’s. 

His hostess was one of those middle-aged ladies of fashion, who 
like to patronise and bring forward young men, accepting grati- 
tude for condescension, as a homage to beauty. She was struck 
by Vivian’s exterior, and that “ picturesque ” in look and in 
manner which belonged to him. Naturally garrulous and in- 
discreet, she was unreserved to a pupil whom she conceived 
the whim to make “ au fait to society.” Thus she talked 
to him among other topics in fashion, of Miss Trevanion,^ 
and expressed her belief that the present Lord Castleton had 
always admired her ; but it was only on his accession to the 
marquisate that he had made up his mind to marry, or, from 
his knowledge of Lady Ellinor’s ambition, thought that the 
Marquis of Castleton might achieve the prize which would have 
been refused to Sir Sedley Beaudesert. Then, to corroborate 
the predictions she hazarded, she repeated, perhaps with exag- 
geration, some passages from Lord Castleton’s replies to her 
own suggestions on the subject. Vivian’s alarm became fatally 
excited ; unregulated passions easily obscured a reason so long 
perverted, and a conscience so habitually dulled. There is an 
instinct in all intense affection (whether it be corrupt or pure) 
that usually makes its jealousy prophetic. Thus, from the first, 
out of all the brilliant idlers round Fanny Trevanion, my 
jealousy had pre-eminently fastened on Sir Sedley Beaudesert, 
though, to all seeming, without a cause. From the same in- 
stinct, Vivian had conceived the same vague jealousy — a 
jealousy, in his instance, coupled with a deep dislike to his 
supposed rival, who had wounded his self-love. For the 
marquis, though to be haughty or ill-bred was impossible to 
the blandness of his nature, had never shown to Vivian the 
genial courtesies he had lavished upon me, and kept politely 
aloof from his acquaintance — while Vivian’s personal vanity had 
been wounded by that drawing-room effect which the proverbial 
winner of all hearts produced without an effort — an effect that 
threw into the shade the youth and the beauty (more striking 
but infinitely less prepossessing) of the adventurous rival. Thus 
animosity to Lord Castleton conspired with Vivian’s passion for 
Fanny to rouse all that was worst by nature and by rearing in 
this audacious and turbulent spirit. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


399 


His confidant Peacock suggested, from his stage experience, 
the outlines of a plot, to which Vivian’s astuter intellect instantly 
gave tangibility and colouring. Peacock had already found Miss 
Trevanion’s waiting-woman ripe for any measure that might 
secure himself as her husband, and a provision for life as a 
reward. Two or three letters between them settled the pre- 
liminary engagements. A friend of the ex-comedian’s had lately 
taken an inn on the north road, and might be relied upon. At 
that inn it was settled that Vivian should meet Miss Trevanion, 
whom Peacock, by the aid of the abigail, engaged to lure there. 
The sole difficulty that then remained would, to most men, have 
seemed the greatest — viz., the consent of Miss Trevanion to a 
Scotch marriage. But Vivian hoped all things from his own 
eloquence, art, and passion ; and by an inconsistency, however 
strange, still not unnatural in the twists of so crooked an in- 
tellect, he thought that, by insisting on the intention of her 
parents to sacrifice her youth to the very man of whose attrac- 
tions he was most jealous — by the picture of disparity of years, 
by the caricature of his rival’s foibles and frivolities, by the 
commonplaces of “ beauty bartered for ambition,” &c., he might 
enlist her fears of the alternative on the side of the choice urged 
upon her. The plan proceeded, the time came : Peacock pre- 
tended the excuse of a sick relation to leave Trevanion ; and 
Vivian a day before, on pretence of visiting the picturesque 
scenes in the neighbourhood, obtained leave of absence. Thus 
the plot went on to its catastrophe. 

“ And I need not ask,” said I, trying in vain to conceal my 
indignation, “ how Miss Trevanion received your monstrous 
proposition ! ” 

Vivian’s pale cheek grew paler, but he made no reply. 

“And if we had not arrived, what would you have done? Oh, 
dare you look into the gulf of infamy you have escaped ! ” 

“ I cannot, and I will not bear this !” exclaimed Vivian, start- 
ing up. “ I have laid my heart bare before you, and it is un- 
generous and unmanly thus to press upon its wounds. You can 
moralise, you can speak coldly — but — I — I loved ! ” 

“And do you think,” I burst forth, — “do you think that I did 
not love too ! — love longer than you have done ; better than you 
have done ; gone through sharper struggles, darker days, more 

sleepless nights than you, — and yet ” 

Vivian caught hold of me. 

“Hush!” he cried; “is this indeed true! I thought you 
might lnn e had some faint and fleeting fancy for Miss Trevanion, 


400 


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but that you curbed and conquered it at once. Oh no ! it was 
impossible to have loved really, and to have surrendered all 
chance as you did ! — have left the house, have fled from her 
presence ! No — no ! that was not love ! ** 

“It was love ! and I pray Heaven to grant that, one day, you 
may know how little your affection sprang from those feelings 
which make true love sublime as honour, and meek as is religion! 
Oh ! cousin, cousin — with these rare gifts, what you might have 
been ! what, if you will pass through repentance, and cling to 
atonement — what, I dare hope, you may yet be. Talk not now 
of your love; I talk not of mine! Love is a thing gone from the 
lives of both. Go back to earlier; thoughts, to heavier wrongs ! 
— your father !— that noble heart which you have so wantonly 
lacerated, which you have so little comprehended ! ” 

Then with all the warmth of emotion I hurried on — showed 
him the true nature of honour and of Roland (for the names 
were one !) — showed him the watch, the hope, the manly 
anguish I had witnessed, and wept — I, not his son — to see ; 
showed him the poverty and privation to which the father, even 
at the last, had condemned himself, so that the son might have 
no excuse for the sins that Want whispers to the weak. This, 
and much more, and I suppose with the pathos that belongs to 
all earnestness, I enforced, sentence after sentence — yielding to 
no interruption, over-mastering all dissent ! driving in the truth, 
nail after nail, as it were, into the obdurate heart, that I con- 
strained and grappled to. And at last, the dark, bitter, cynical 
nature gave way, and the young man fell sobbing at my feet, and 
cried aloud, “ Spare me, spare me ! I see it all now ! Wretch 
that I have been ! ” 


CHAPTER VIII 

(XN leaving Vivian I did not presume to promise him Roland’s 
immediate pardon. I did not urge him to attempt to see 
his father. I felt the time was not come for either pardon 
or interview. I contented myself with the victory I had 
already gained. I judged it right that thought, solitude, and 
suffering should imprint more deeply the lesson, and prepare 
the way to the steadfast resolution of reform. I left him seated 
by the stream, and with the promise to inform him at the small 
hostelry, where he took up his lodging, how Roland struggled 
through his illness. 


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401 


On returning to the inn, I was uneasy to see how long a 
time had elapsed since I had left my uncle. But on coming 
into his room, to my surprise and relief, I found him up and 
dressed, and with a serene, though fatigued, expression of 
countenance. He asked me no questions where I had been — 
perhaps from sympathy with my feelings in parting with Miss 
Trevanion — perhaps from conjecture that the indulgence of 
those feelings had not wholly engrossed my time. 

But he said simply, “ I think I understood from you that you 
had sent for Austin — is it so ? ” 

“Yes, sir; but I named , as the nearest point to the 

Tower, for the place of meeting. ” 

“Then let us go hence forthwith — nay, I shall be better for 
the change. And here, there must be curiosity, conjecture — 
torture ! ” — said he, locking his hands tightly together : “ order 
the horses at once ! ” 

I left the room accordingly ; and while they were getting 
ready the horses, I ran to the place where I had left Vivian. 
He was still there, in the same attitude, covering his face with 
his hands, as if to shut out the sun. I told him hastily of 
Roland’s improvement, of our approaching departure, and asked 
him an address in London at which I could find him. He gave 
me as his direction the same lodging at which I had so often 
visited him. “ If there be no vacancy there for me,” said he, 
“ I shall leave word where I am to be found. But I would gladly 
be where I was before — ” He did not finish the sentence. I 
pressed his hand, and left him. 


CHAPTER IX 


COME days have elapsed : we are in London, my father with 
^ us ; and Roland has permitted Austin to tell me his tale, 
and received through Austin all that Vivian’s narrative to me 
suggested, whether in extenuation of the past, or in hope of 
redemption in the future. And Austin has inex pressibly soothed 
his brother. And Roland’s ordinary roughness has gone, and his 
looks are meek, and his voice low. But lie talks little, and smiles 
never. He asks me no questions ; does not to me name his son, 
nor recur to the voyage to Australia, nor ask “ why it is put off ; ” 
nor interest himself as before in preparations for it — he has 
no heart for anything. 

2 c 


402 


THE CAXTONS : 


The voyage is put off till the next vessel sails, and I have 
seen Vivian twice or thrice, and the result of the interviews has 
disappointed and depressed me. It seems to me that much 
of the previous effect I had produced is already obliterated. 
At the very sight of the great Babel — the evidence of the ease, 
the luxury, the wealth, the pomp ; — the strife, the penury, the 
famine, and the rags, which the focus of civilisation, in the dis- 
parities of old societies, inevitably gathers together — the fierce 
combative disposition seemed to awaken again ; the perverted 
ambition, the hostility to the world ; the wrath, the scorn ; 
the war with man, and the rebellious murmur against Heaven. 
There was still the one redeeming point of repentance for his 
wrongs to his father— his heart was still softened there ; and, 
attendant on that softness, I hailed a principle more like that 
of honour than I had yet recognised in Vivian. He cancelled 
the agreement which had assured him of a provision at the 
cost of his father’s comforts. “ At least, there,” he said, “ I 
will injure him no more ! ” 

But while, on this point, repentance seemed genuine, it was 
not so with regard to his conduct towards Miss Trevanion. 
His gipsy nurture, his loose associates, his extravagant French 
romances, his theatrical mode of looking upon love intrigues 
and stage plots, seemed all to rise between his intelligence and 
the due sense of the fraud and treachery he had practised. He 
seemed to feel more shame at the exposure than at the 
guilt ; more despair at the failure of success than gratitude at 
escape from crime. In a word, the nature of a whole life 
was not to be remodelled at once — at least by an artificer so 
unskilled as I. 

After one of these interviews, I stole into the room where 
Austin sat with Roland, and, watching a seasonable moment when 
Roland, shaking off a reverie, opened his Bible, and sat do\£n 
to it, with each muscle in his face set, as I had seen it before, 
into iron resolution, I beckoned my father from the room. 

Pisistratus. — “ I have again seen my cousin. I cannot make 
the way I wished. My dear father, you must see him.” 

Mr. Caxton. — “ I ? — yes, assuredly, if I can be of any service. 
But will he listen to me ? ” 

Pisistratus. — “ I think so. A young man will often respect 
in his elder what he will resent as a presumption in his con- 
temporary.” 

Mr. Caxton. — “It may be so : (then more thoughtfully), but 
you describe this strange boy’s mind as a wreck ! — in. what part 


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403 


of. the mouldering timbers can I fix the grappling-liook ? Here, 
it seems that most of the supports on which we can best rely, 
when we would save another, fail us. Religion, honour, the 
associations of childhood, the bonds of home, filial obedience — 
even the intelligence of self-interest, in the philosophical sense 
of the word. And I, too ! — a mere bookman ! My dear son ! — 
I despair ! ” 

Pisistratus. — “ No, you do not despair — no, you must succeed; 
for, if you do not, what is to become of Uncle Roland ? Do you 
not see his heart is fast breaking?” 

Mr. Caxton. — “Get me my hat; I will go. I will save this 
Ishmael— I will not leave him till he is saved ! ” 

Pisistratus (some minutes after, as they are walking towards 
Vivian’s lodging). — “You ask me what support you are to cling 
to. A strong and a good one, sir.” 

Mr. Caxton. — “ Ah ! what is that ? ” 

Pisistratus. — “ Affection ! there is a nature capable of strong 
affection at the core of this wild heart ! He could love his 
mother ; tears gush to his eyes at her name — he would have 
starved rather than part with the memorial of that love. It was 
his belief in his father’s indifference, or dislike, that hardened 
and embruted him — it is only when he hears how that father 
loved him, that I now melt his pride and curb his passions. You 
have affection to deal with ! — do you despair now ?” 

My father turned on me those eyes so inexpressibly benign 
and mild, and replied softly, “No !” 

We reached the house ; and my father said, as we knocked at 
the door, “ If he is at home, leave me. This is a hard study to 
which you have set me ; I must work at it alone.” 

Vivian was at home, and the door closed on his visitor. My 
father stayed some hours. 

On returning home, to my great surprise I found Trevanion 
with my uncle. He had found us out — no easy matter, I should 
think. But a good impulse in Trevanion was not of that feeble 
kind which turns home at the sight of a difficulty. He had come 
to London on purpose to see and to thank us. 

I did not think there had been so much of delicacy — of what 
I may call the “ beauty of kindness in a man whom incessant 
business had rendered ordinarily blunt and abrupt. I hardly 
recognised the impatient Trevanion in the soothing, tender, 
subtle respect that rather implied than spoke gratitude, and 
sought to insinuate what he owed to the unhappy father, with- 
out touching on his wrongs from the son. But of this kindness 


404 


THE CAXTONS: 


— which showed how Trevanion’s high nature of gentleman 
raised him aloof from that coarseness of thought which those 
absorbed wholly in practical affairs often contract — of this kind- 
ness, so noble and so touching, Roland seemed scarcely aware. 
He sat by the embers of the neglected fire, his hands grasping 
the arms of his elbow-chair, his head drooping on his bosom ; 
and only by a deep hectic flush on his dark cheek could you 
have seen that he distinguished between an ordinary visitor and 
the man whose child he had helped to save. This minister of 
state — this high member of the elect, at whose gift are places, 
peerages, gold sticks, and ribbons — has nothing at his com- 
mand for the bruised spirit of the half-pay soldier. Before that 
poverty, that grief, and that pride, the King’s Counsellor was 
powerless. Only when Trevanion rose to depart, something 
like a sense of the soothing intention which the visit implied 
seemed to rouse the repose of the old man, and to break the 
ice at its surface ; for he followed Trevanion to the door, took 
both his hands, pressed them, then turned away, and resumed 
his seat. Trevanion beckoned to me, and I followed him down- 
stairs, and into a little parlour which was unoccupied. 

After some remarks upon Roland, full of deep and considerate 
feeling, and one quick, hurried reference to the son — to the 
effect that his guilty attempt would never be known by the 
world — Trevanion then addressed himself to me with a warmth 
and urgency that took me by surprise. “ After what has passed,” 
he exclaimed, “ I cannot suffer you to leave England thus. Let 
me not feel with you, as with your uncle, that there is nothing 
by which I can repay — no, I will not so put it— stay and serve 
your country at home : it is my prayer — it is Ellinor’s. Out of 
all at my disposal, it will go hard but what I shall find something 
to suit you.” And then, hurrying on, Trevanion spoke flatter- 
ingly of my pretensions, in right of birth and capabilities, to 
honourable employment, and placed before me a picture of 
public life — its prizes and distinctions — which, for the moment 
at least, made my heart beat loud and my breath come quick. 
But still, even then, I felt (was it an unreasonable pride ?) that 
there was something that jarred, something that humbled, in 
the thought of holding all my fortunes as a dependency on the 
father of the woman I loved, but might not aspire to ; — some- 
thing even of personal degradation in the mere feeling that I 
was thus to be repaid for a service, and recompensed for a loss. 
But these were not reasons I could advance ; and, indeed, so for 
the time did Trevanion’s generosity and eloquence overpower 


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405 


me, that I could only falter out my thanks, and my promise that 
I would consider and let him know. 

With that promise he was forced to content himself ; he told 
me to direct to him at his favourite country seat, whither he 
was going that day, and so left me. I looked round the humble 
parlour of the mean lodging-house, and Trevanion’s words came 
again before me like a flash of golden light. I stole into the 
open air, and wandered through the crowded streets, agitated 
and disturbed. 


CHAPTER X 


SEVERAL days elapsed — and of each day my father spent a 
^ considerable part at Vivian’s lodgings. But he maintained a 
reserve as to his success, begged me not to question him, and to 
refrain also for the present from visiting my cousin. My uncle 
guessed or knew his brother’s mission ; for I observed that, 
whenever Austin went noiseless away, his eye brightened, and 
the colour rose in a hectic flush to his cheek. At last my father 
came to me one morning, his carpet-bag in his hand, and said, 
“ I am going away for a week or two. Keep Roland company 
till I return.” 

“ Going with him ? ” 

“With him.” 


“That is a good sign.” 

“ I hope so : that is all I can say now.” 

The week had not quite passed when I received from my 
father the letter I am about to place before the reader, and you 
may judge how earnestly his soul must have been in the task it 
had volunteered, if you observe how little, comparatively speak- 
ing, the letter contains of the subtleties and pedantries (may 
the last word be pardoned, for it is scarcely a just one) which 
ordinarily left my father, a scholar even in the midst of his 
emotions. He seemed here to have abandoned his books, to 
have put the human heart before the eyes of his pupil, and said, 
“ Read and ww-learn ! ” 


To PlSISTRATUS CAXTON. 

“ My dear Son, — It were needless to tell you all the earlier 
difficulties I have had to encounter with my charge, nor to 
repeat all the means which, acting on your suggestion (a correct 


406 


THE CAXTONS : 


one), I have employed to arouse feelings long dormant and 
confused, and allay others, long prematurely active and terribly 
distinct. The evil was simply this : here was the intelligence 
of a man in all that is evil — and the ignorance of an infant in all 
that is good. In matters merely worldly, what wonderful acumen ! 
in the plain principles of right and wrong, what gross and stolid 
obtuseness ! At one time, I am straining all my poor wit to 
grapple in an encounter on the knottiest mysteries of social life ; 
at another, I am guiding reluctant fingers over the horn-book of 
the most obvious morals. Here hieroglyphics, and there pot- 
hooks ! But as long as there is affection in a man, why, there is 
Nature to begin with ! To get rid of all the rubbish laid upon 
her, clear back the way to that Nature, and start afresh — that is 
one’s only chance. 

“ Well, by degrees I won my way, waiting patiently till the 
bosom, pleased with the relief, disgorged itself of all ‘ its perilous 
stuff/ — not chiding — not even remonstrating, seeming almost 
to sympathise, till I got him, Socratically, to disprove himself. 
When I saw that he no longer feared me — that my company 
had become a relief to him — I proposed an excursion, and did 
not tell him whither. 

“ Avoiding as much as possible the main north road (for I did 
not wish, as you may suppose, to set fire to a train of associations 
that might blow us up to the dog-star), and, where that avoid- 
ance was not possible, travelling by night, I got him into the 
neighbourhood of the old Tower. I would not admit him under 
its roof. But you know the little inn, three miles off, near the 
trout stream ? — we made our abode there. 

“Well, I have taken him into the village, preserving his in- 
cognito. I have entered with him into cottages, and turned the 
talk upon Roland. You know how your uncle is adored ; you 
know what anecdotes of his bold, warm-hearted youth once, 
and now of his kind and charitable age, would spring up from 
the garrulous lips of gratitude ! I made him see with his own 
eyes, hear with his own ears, how all who knew Roland loved 
and honoured him — except his son. Then I took him round the 
ruins — (still not suffering him to enter the house), for those 
ruins are the key to Roland’s character — seeing them, one sees 
the pathos in his poor foible of family pride. There, you dis- 
tinguish it from the insolent boasts of the prosperous, and feel 
that it is little more than the pious reverence to the dead — - 
‘the tender culture of the tomb.’ We sat down on heaps of 
mouldering stone and it was there that I explained to him 


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407 


what Roland was in youth, and what he had dreamed that a 
son would be to him. I showed him the graves of his ancestors, 
and explained to him why they were sacred in Roland’s eyes ! 

I had gained a great way, when he longed to enter the home 
that should have been his ; and I could make him pause of his 
own accord, and say, ‘ No, I must first be worthy of it.’ Then 
you would have smiled — sly satirist that you are — to have heard 
me impressing upon this acute, sharp-witted youth, all that we 
plain folk understand by the name of home — its perfect trust 
and truth, its simple holiness, its exquisite happiness — being to 
the world what conscience is to the human mind. And after 
that, I brought in his sister, whom till then he had scarcely 
named — for whom he scarcely seemed to care — brought her 
in to aid the father, and endear the home. ‘ And you know,’ 
said I, ‘that if Roland were to die, it would be a brother’s 
duty to supply his place ; to shield her innocence — to protect 
her name ! A good name is something, then. Your father was 
not so wrong to prize it. You would like yours to be that 
which your sister would be proud to own ! ’ 

“ While we were talking, Blanche suddenly came to the spot, 
and rushed to my arms. She looked on him as a stranger ; 
but I saw his knees tremble. And then she was about to put 
her hand in his — but I drew her back. Was I cruel ? He 
thought so. But when I dismissed her, I replied to his re- 
proach, ‘Your sister is a part of Home. If you think yourself 
worthy of either, go and claim both; I will not object.’ — ‘She 
has my mother’s eyes,’ said he, and walked away. I left him 
to muse amidst the ruins, while I went in to see your poor 
mother, and relieve her fears about Roland, and make her 
understand why I could not yet return home. 

“ This brief sight of his sister has sunk deep into him. But • 
I now approach what seems to me the great difficulty of the 
whole. He is fully anxious to redeem his name — to regain 
his home. So far so well. But he cannot yet see ambition, 
except with hard, worldly eyes. He still fancies that all he 
has to do is to get money and power, and some of those empty 
prizes in the Great Lottery which we often win more easily by 
our sins than our virtues. (Here follows a long passage from 
Seneca, omitted as superfluous.) He does not yet even under- 
stand me — or, if he does, he fancies me a mere bookworm 
indeed, when I imply that he might be poor, and obscure, at 
the bottom of fortune’s wheel, and yet be one we should be 
proud of! He supposes that, to redeem his name, he has only 


408 


THE CAXTONS : 


got to lacker it. Don’t think me merely the fond father, when 
I add my hope that I shall use you to advantage here. I mean 
to talk to him to-morrow, as we return to London, of you, and 
of your ambition : you shall hear the result. 

“ At this moment (it is past midnight), I hear his step in the 
room above me. The window-sash aloft opens — for the third 
time : would to Heaven he could read the true astrology of 
the stars ! There they are — bright, luminous, benignant. And 
I seeking to chain this wandering comet into the harmonies of 
heaven ! Better task than that of astrologers, and astronomers 
to boot ! Who among them can f loosen the band of Orion ’ ? — 
but who amongst us may not be permitted by God to have 
sway over the action and orbit of the human soul ? — Your ever 
affectionate father, A. C.” 

Two days after the receipt of this letter, came the following ; 
and though I would fain suppress those references to myself 
which must be ascribed to a father’s partiality, yet it is so 
needful to retain them in connection with Vivian, that I have 
no choice but to leave the tender flatteries to the indulgence of 
the kind. 

“ My dear Son, — I was not too sanguine as to the effect that 
your simple story would produce upon your cousin. Without 
implying any contrast to his own conduct, I described that scene 
in which you threw yourself upon our sympathy, in the struggle 
between love and duty, and asked for our counsel and support ; 
when Roland gave you his blunt advice to tell all to Trevanion ; 
and when, amidst such sorrow as the heart in youth seems 
scarcely large enough to hold, you caught at truth impulsively, 
and the truth bore you safe from the shipwreck. I recounted 
your silent and manly struggles — your resolution not to suffer 
the egotism of passion to unfit you for the aims and ends of 
that spiritual probation which we call life. I showed you as 
you were, still thoughtful for us, interested in our interests — 
smiling on us, that we might not guess that you wept in secret ! 
Oh, my son — my son ! do not think that, in those times, I did 
not feel and pray for you ! And while he was melted by my 
own emotion, 1 turned from your love to your ambition. I 
made him see that you, too, had known the restlessness which 
belongs to young ardent natures ; that you, too, had your 
dreams of fortune, and aspirations for success. But I painted 
that ambition in its true colours: it was not the desire of a 


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409 


selfish intellect, to be in yourself a somebody — a something — 
raised a step or two in the social ladder, for the pleasure of 
looking down on those at the foot, but the warmer yearning of 
a generous heart : your ambition was to repair your father’s 
losses — minister to your father’s very foible, in his idle desire of 
fame — supply to your uncle what he had lost in his natural heir 
— link your success to useful objects, your interests to those of 
your kind, your reward to the proud and grateful smiles of those 
you loved. That was thine ambition O my tender Anachronism ! 
And when, as I closed the sketch, I said, ‘ Pardon me : you 
know not what delight a father feels when, while sending a son 
away from him into the world, he can speak and think thus of 
him ! But this, you see, is not your kind of ambition. Let us 
talk of making money, and driving a coach-and-four through 
this villainous world,’ — your cousin sank into a profound reverie ; 
and when he woke from it, it was like the waking of the earth 
after a night in spring — the bare trees had put forth buds ! 

“ And, some time after, he startled me by a prayer that I 
would permit him, with his father’s consent, to accompany you 
to Australia. The only answer I have given him as yet, has 
been in the form of a question : f Ask yourself if I ought ? I 
cannot wish Pisistratus to be other than he is, and unless you 
agree with him in all his principles and objects, ought I to 
incur the risk that you should give him your knowledge of 
the world, and inoculate him with your ambition ? ’ He was 
struck, and had the candour to attempt no reply. 

“ Now, Pisistratus, the doubt I expressed to him is the doubt 
I feel. For, indeed, it is only by home-truths, not refining 
arguments, that I can deal with this unscholastic Scythian, who, 
fresh from the Steppes, comes to puzzle me in the Portico. 

“ On the one hand, what is to become of him in the Old 
World ? At his age, and with his energies, it would be impos- 
sible to cage him with us in the Cumberland ruins ; weariness 
and discontent would undo all we could do. He has no re- 
source in books — and, I fear, never will have ! But to send 
him forth into one of the overcrowded professions ; — to place 
him amidst all those f disparities of social life,’ on the rough 
stones of which he is perpetually grinding his heart; turn 
him adrift amongst all the temptations to which he is most 
prone — this is a trial which, I fear, will be too sharp for a 
conversion so incomplete. In the New World, no doubt, his 
energies would find a safer field ; and even the adventurous 
and desultory habits of his childhood might there be put to 


410 


THE CAXTONS : 


healthful account. Those complaints of the disparities of the 
civilised world find; I suspect, an easier, if a bluffer, reply from 
the political economist than the Stoic philosopher. ‘You don’t 
like them, you find it hard to submit to them/ says the political 
economist ; ‘ but they are the laws off a civilised state, and you 
can’t alter them. Wiser men than you have tried to alter 
them, and never succeeded, though they turned the earth 
topsy-turvy ! Very well ; but the world is wide — go into a 
state that is not so civilised. The disparities of the Old World 
vanish amidst the New ! Emigration is the reply of Nature 
to the rebellious cry against Art.’ Thus would say the political 
economist; and, alas, even in your case, my son, I found no 
reply to the reasonings ! I acknowledge, then* that Australia 
might open the best safety-valve to your cousin’s discontent 
and desires; but I acknowledge also a counter-truth, which is 
this — * It is not permitted to an honest man to corrupt himself 
for the sake of others.’ That is almost the only maxim of 
Jean Jacques to which I can cheerfully subscribe ! Do you 
feel quite strong enough to resist all the influences which a 
companionship of this kind may subject you to — strong enough 
to bear his burden as well as your own — strong enough, also — 
ay, and alert and vigilant enough — to prevent those influences 
harming the others, whom you have undertaken to guide, and 
whose lots are confided to you ? Pause well, and consider 
maturely, for this must not depend upon a generous impulse. 
I think that your cousin would now pass under your charge 
with a sincere desire for reform ; but between sincere desire 
and steadfast performance there is a long and dreary interval — 
even to the best of us. Were it not for Roland, and had I one 
grain less confidence in you, I could not entertain the thought 
of laying on your young shoulders so great a responsibility. 
But every new responsibility to an earnest nature is a new 
prop to virtue ; — and all I now ask of you is — to remember 
that it is a solemn and serious charge, not to be undertaken 
without the most deliberate gauge and measure of the strength 
with which it is to be borne. 

" In two days we shall be in London. — Yours, my Ana- 
chronism, anxiously and fondly, A. C.” 

I was in my own room while I read this letter, and I had 
just finished it when, as I looked up, I saw Roland standing 
opposite to me. “ It is from Austin,” said' he ; then he paused 
a moment, and added, in a tone that seemed quite humble, 


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411 


"May I see it? — and dare I?” I placed the letter in his 
hands, and retired a few paces, that he might not think I 
watched his countenance while he read it. And I was only 
aware that he had come to the end by a heavy, anxious, but 
not disappointed sigh. Then I turned, and our eyes met, and 
there was something in Roland’s look, inquiring — and, as it 
were, imploring. I interpreted it at once. 

“ Oh yes, uncle,” I said, smiling ; “ I have reflected, and I 
have no fear of the result. Before my father wrote, what he 
now suggests had become my secret wish. As for our other 
companions, their simple natures would defy all such sophistries 
as — but he is already half-cured of those. Let him come with 
me, and when he returns he shall be worthy of a place in your 
heart, beside his sister Blanche. I feel, I promise it— do not 
fear for me ! Such a change will be a talisman to myself. I 
will shun every error that I might otherwise commit, so that 
he may have no example to entice him to err.” 

I know that in youth, and the superstition of first love, we 
are credulously inclined to believe that love, and the possession 
of the beloved, are the only happiness. But when my uncle 
folded me in his arms, and called me the hope of his age, and 
stay of his house — the music of my father’s praise still ringing 
on my heart — I do affirm that I knew a prouder bliss than if 
Trevanion had placed Fanny’s hand in mine, and said, “ She 
is yours.” 

And now the die was cast — the decision made. It was with 
no regret that I wrote to Trevanion to decline his offers. Nor 
was the sacrifice so great — even putting aside the natural pride 
w r hich had before inclined to it — as it may seem to some ; for, 
restless though I was, I had laboured to constrain myself to 
other views of life than those which close the vistas of ambition 
with images of the terrestrial deities — Power and Rank. Had I 
not been behind the scenes, noted all of joy and of peace that 
the pursuit of power had cost Trevanion, and seen how little 
of happiness rank gave even to one of the polished habits and 
graceful attributes of Lord Castleton ? Yet each nature seemed 
fitted so well — the first for power, the last for rank ! It is 
marvellous with what liberality Providence atones for the partial 
dispensations of Fortune. Independence, or the vigorous pur- 
suit of it ; affection, with its hopes and its rewards ; a life only 
rendered by Art more susceptible to Nature — in which the 
physical enjoyments are pure and healthful — in which the 
moral faculties expand harmoniously with the intellectual — and 


412 


THE CAXTONS : 


the heart is at peace with the mind ; is this a mean lot for 
ambition to desire — and is it so far out of human reach ? 
“ Know thyself/’ said the old philosophy. “ Improve thyself/’ 
saith the new. The great object of the Sojourner in Time is 
not to waste all his passions and gifts on the things external, 
that he must leave behind — that which he cultivates within is 
all that he can carry into the Eternal Progress. We are here 
but as schoolboys, whose life begins where school ends ; and the 
battles we fought with our rivals, and the toys that we shared 
with our playmates, and the names that we carved, high or low, 
on the wall, above our desks — will they so much bestead us 
hereafter ! As new fates crowd upon us, can they more than 
pass through the memory with a smile or a sigh ? Look back 
to thy schooldays, and answer. 


CHAPTER XI 

npWO weeks since the date of the preceding chapter have 
"*■ passed ; we have slept our last, for long years to come, on 
the English soil. It is night — and Vivian has been admitted 
to an interview with his father. They have been together 
alone an hour and more, and I and my father will not disturb 
them. But the clock strikes — the hour is late — the ship sails 
to-night — we should be on board. And as we two stand below, 
the door opens in the room above, and a heavy step descends 
the stairs; the father is leaning on the son’s arm. You should 
see how timidly the son guides the halting step. And now as 
the light gleams on their faces, there are tears on Vivian’s 
cheek ; but the face of Roland seems calm and happy. Happy ! 
when about to be separated, perhaps for ever, from his son ? 
Yes, happy, because he has found a son for the first time ; and 
is not thinking of years and absence, and the chance of death 
— but thankful for the Divine Mercy, and cherishing celestial 
hope. If ye wonder why Roland is happy in such an hour, how 
vainly have I sought to make him breathe, and live, and move 
before you ! 

We are on board ; our luggage all went first. I had had time, 
with the help of a carpenter, to knock up cabins for Vivian, 
Guy Bolding, and myself, in the hold. For, thinking we could 
not too soon lay aside the pretensions of Europe — “de-fine- 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


413 


gentlemanise ” ourselves, as Trevanion recommended — we had 
engaged steerage passage, to the great humouring of our 
finances. We had, too, the luxury to be by ourselves, and our 
own Cumberland folks were round us, as our friends and 
servants both. 

We are on board, and have looked our last on those we are 
to leave, and we stand on deck leaning on each other. We are 
on board, and the lights, near and far, shine from the vast City ; 
and the stars are on high, bright and clear, as for the first 
mariners of old. Strange noises, rough voices, and crackling 
cords, and here and there the sobs of women mingling with 
the oaths of men. Now the swing and heave of the vessel — 
the dreary sense of exile that comes when the ship fairly moves 
over the waters. And still we stood, and looked, and listened ; 
silent, and leaning on each other. 

Night deepened, the City vanished — not a gleam from its 
myriad lights ! The river widened and widened. How cold 
comes the wind ! — is that a gale from the sea ? The stars grow 
faint — the moon has sunk. And now, how desolate seem the 
waters in the comfortless grey of dawn ! Then we shivered 
and looked at each other, and muttered something that was 
not the thought deepest at our hearts, and crept into our 
berths — feeling sure it was not for sleep. And sleep came 
on us, soft and kind. The ocean lulled the exiles as on a 
mother’s breast. 


PART XVII 


CHAPTER I 


stage-scene has dropped. Settle yourselves, ray good 



audience ; chat each with his neighbour. Dear madam, in 
the boxes, take up your opera-glass and look about you. Treat 
Tom and pretty Sal to some of those fine oranges, O thou happy- 
looking mother in the two-shilling gallery ! Yes, brave ’prentice 
boys, in the tier above, the cat-call by all means ! And you, 
“ most potent, grave, and reverend seigneurs,” in the front row 
of the pit — practised critics and steady old playgoers — who 
shake your heads at new actors and playwrights, and, true to 
the creed of your youth (for the which all honour to you !) 
firmly believe that we are shorter by the head than those giants 
our grandfathers — laugh or scold as you will, while the drop-scene 
still shuts out the stage. It is just that you should all amuse 
yourselves in your own way, O spectators ! for the interval is 
long. All the actors have to change their dresses ; all the 
scene-shifters are at work, sliding the ec sides of a new world 
into their grooves ; and in high disdain of all unity of time, as 
of place, you will see in the play-bills that there is a great 
demand on your belief. You are called upon to suppose that 
we are older by five years than when you last saw us " fret our 
hour upon the stage.” Five years ! the author tells us especially 
to humour the belief by letting the drop-scene linger longer than 
usual between the lamps and the stage. 

Play up ! O ye fiddles and kettledrums ! the time is elapsed. 
Stop that cat-call, young gentleman ! — heads down in the pit 
there ! Now the flourish is over — the scene draws up : look 
before. 

A bright, clear, transparent atmosphere — bright as that of 
the East, but vigorous and bracing as the air of the North ; a 
broad and fair river, rolling through wide grassy plains ; yonder, 
far in the distance, stretch away vast forests of evergreen, and 
gentle slopes break the line of the cloudless horizon ; see the 


414 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


415 


pastures, Arcadian with sheep in hundreds and thousands — 
Thyrsis and Menalcas would have had hard labour to count 
them, and small time, I fear, for singing songs about Daphne. 
But, alas ! Daphnes are rare : no nymphs with garlands and 
crooks trip over those pastures. 

Turn your eyes to the light, nearer the river ; just parted by 
a low fence from the thirty acres or so that are farmed for 
amusement or convenience, not for profit — that comes from the 
sheep — you catch a glimpse of a garden. Look not so scorn- 
fully at the primitive horticulture — such gardens are rare in the 
Bush. I doubt if the stately King of the Peak ever more 
rejoiced in the famous conservatory, through which you may 
drive in your carriage, than do the sons of the Bush in the 
herbs and blossoms which taste and breathe of the old father- 
land. Go on, and behold the palace of the patriarchs — it is of 
wood, I grant you, but the house we build with our own hands 
is always a palace. Did you ever build one when you were a 
boy ? And the lords of that palace are lords of the land, 
almost as far as you can see, and of those numberless flocks ; 
and better still, of a health which an antediluvian might have 
envied, and of nerves so seasoned with horse-breaking, cattle- 
driving, fighting with wild blacks — chases from them and after 
them, for life and for death — that if any passion vex the breast 
of those kings of the Bushland, fear at least is erased from 
the list. 

See here and there through the landscape, rude huts like the 
masters’ — wild spirits and fierce dwell within. But they are 
tamed into order by plenty and hope ; by the hand open but 
firm, by the eye keen but just. 

Now, out from those woods, over those green rolling plains, 
harum-scarum, helter-skelter, long hair flying wild, and all 
bearded, as a Turk or a pard, comes a rider you recognise. 
The rider dismounts, and another old acquaintance turns from 
a shepherd, with whom he has been conversing on matters that 
never plagued Thyrsis and Menalcas, whose sheep seem to have 
been innocent of foot-rot and scab — and accosts the horseman. 

Pisistratus. — “My dear Guy, where on earth have you been?” 

Guy (producing a book from his pocket, with great triumph). 
— ■“ There ! Dr. Johnson’s f Lives of the Poets.’ I could not 
get the squatter to let me have ‘ Kenilworth,’ though I offered 
him three sheep for it. Dull old fellow, that Dr. Johnson, I 
suspect ; so much the better, the book will last all the longer. 
And here’s a Sydney paper, too, only two months old ! ” (Guy 


THE CAXTONS: 


416 

takes a short pipe, or dodeen, from his hat, in the band of which 
it had been stuck, fills and lights it.) 

Pisistratus. — “ You must have ridden thirty miles at the 
least. To think of your turning book-hunter, Guy !” 

Guy Bolding (philosophically). — “ Ay, one don’t know the 
worth of a thing till one has lost it. No sneers at me, old 
fellow ; you, too, declared that you were bothered out of your 
life by those books, till you found how long the evenings were 
without them. Then, the first new book we got — an old 
volume of the Spectator ! — such fun ! ” 

Pisistratus. — “Very true. The brown cow has calved in 
your absence. Do you know, Guy, I think we shall have no 
scab in the fold this year. If so, there will be a rare sum to 
lay by ! Things look up with us now, Guy.” 

Guy Bolding. — “Yes! Very different from the first two 
years. You drew a long face then. How wise you were, to 
insist on our learning experience at another man’s station before 
we hazarded our own capital ! But, by Jove ! those sheep, at 
first, were enough to plague a man out of his wits. What with 
the wild dogs, just as the sheep had been washed and ready to 
shear ; then that cursed scabby sheep of Joe Timmes’s, that we 
caught rubbing his sides so complacently against our unsuspect- 
ing poor ewes. I wonder we did not run away. But ‘ Patientia 
fit’ — what is that line in Horace? Never mind now. ‘ It is a 
long lane that has no turning’ does just as well as anything in 
Horace, and Virgil to boot. I say, has not Vivian been here ? ” 

Pisistratus. — “No ; but he will be sure to come to-day.” 

Guy Bolding. — “ He has much the best berth of it. Horse- 
breeding and cattle-feeding ; galloping after those wild devils ; 
lost in a forest of horns ; beasts lowing, scampering, goring, 
tearing off like mad buffaloes ; horses galloping up hill, down 
hill, over rocks, stones, and timber ; whips cracking, men 
shouting — your neck all but broken ; a great bull making at 
you full rush. Such fun ! Sheep are dull things to look at 
after a bull-hunt and a cattle-feast.” 

Pisistratus. — “Every man to his taste in the Bush. One 
may make one’s money more easily and safely, with more 
adventure and sport, in the bucolic department. But one makes 
larger profit and quicker fortune, with good luck and good care, 
in the pastoral — and our object, I take it, is to get back to 
England as soon as we can/ 

Guy Bolding. — “ Humph ! I should be content to live and 
die in the Bush — nothing like it, if women were not so scarce. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


417 


To think of the redundant spinster population at home, and 
not a spinster here to be seen within thirty miles, save Bet 
Goggins, indeed — and she has only one eye ! But to return to 
Vivian — why should it be our object, more than his, to get 
back to England as soon as we can ? ” 

Pisistratus. — “Not more, certainly. But you saw that an 
excitement more stirring than that we find in the sheep had 
become necessary to him. You know he was growing dull and 
dejected ; the cattle station was to be sold a bargain. And 
then the Durham bulls, and the Yorkshire horses, which Mr. 
Trevanion sent you and me out as presents, were so tempting, I 
thought we might fairly add one speculation to another ; and 
since one of us must superintend the bucolics, and two of us 
were required for the pastorals, I think Vivian was the best 
of us three to entrust with the first ; and, certainly, it has 
succeeded as yet.” 

Guy. — “Why, yes, Vivian is quite in his element — always in 
action, and always in command. Let him be first in everything, 
and there is not a finer fellow, nor a better tempered — present 
company excepted. Hark ! the dogs, the crack of the whip ; 
there he is. And now, I suppose, we may go to dinner.” 

Enter Vivian. 

His frame has grown more athletic ; his eye, more steadfast 
and less restless, looks you full in the face. His smile is more 
open ; but there is a melancholy in his expression, almost ap- 
proaching to gloom. His dress is the same as that of Pisistratus 
and Guy — white vest and trousers ; loose neckcloth, rather gay 
in colour ; broad cabbage-leaf hat ; his moustache and beard are 
trimmed with more care than ours. He has a large whip in his 
hand, and a gun slung across his shoulders. Greetings are 
exchanged ; mutual inquiries as to cattle and sheep, and the 
last horses despatched to the Indian market. Guy shows the 
“ Lives of the Poets ; ” Vivian asks if it is possible to get the 
“ Life of Clive,” or “ Napoleon,” or a copy of “ Plutarch.” Guy 
shakes his head — says, if a “ Robinson Crusoe ” will do as well, 
he has seen one in a very tattered state, but in too great request 
to be had a bargain. 

The party turn into the hut. Miserable animals are bachelors 
in all countries ; but most miserable in Bushland. A man does 
not know what a helpmate of the soft sex is in the Old World, 
where women seem a matter of course. But in the Bush, a 

2 D 


418 


THE CAXTONS: 


wife is literally bone of your bone, flesh of your flesh — your 
better half, your ministering angel, your Eve of the Eden — in 
short, all that poets have sung, or young orators say at public 
dinners, when called upon to give the toast of "The Ladies.” 
Alas ! we are three bachelors, but we are better off than 
bachelors often are in the Bush. For the wife of the shepherd 
I took from Cumberland does me and Bolding the honour to 
live in our hut, and make things tidy and comfortable. She has 
had a couple of children since we have been in the Bush ; a 
wing has been added to the hut for that increase of family. 
The children, I dare say, one might have thought a sad nuisance 
in England ; but I declare that, surrounded as one is by great 
bearded men, from sunrise to sunset, there is something humanis- 
ing, musical, and Christian -like in the very squall of the baby. 
There it goes — bless it ! As for my other companions from 
Cumberland, Miles Square, the most aspiring of all, has long 
left me, and is superintendent to a great sheep-owner some two 
hundred miles off. The Will-o’-the-Wisp is consigned to the 
cattle station, where he is Vivian’s head man, finding time now 
and then to indulge his old poaching propensities at the ex- 
pense of parrots, black cockatoos, pigeons, and kangaroos. The 
shepherd remains with us, and does not seem, honest fellow, to 
care to better himself ; he has a feeling of clanship, which keeps 
down the ambition common in Australia. And his wife — such 
a treasure ! I assure you, the sight of her smooth, smiling 
woman’s face, when we return home at nightfall, and the very 
flow of her gown, as she turns the “ dampers ” 1 in the ashes, 
and fills the tea-pot, have in them something holy and angelical. 
How lucky our Cumberland swain is not jealous ! Not that 
there is any cause, enviable dog though he be ; but where 
Desdemonas are so scarce, if you could but guess how green- 
eyed their Othellos generally are ! Excellent husbands, it is 
true — none better ; but you had better think twice before you 
attempt to play the Cassio in Bushland ! There, however, she 
is, dear creature ! — rattling among knives and forks, smoothing 
the tablecloth, setting on the salt beef, and that rare luxury of 
pickles (the last pot in our store), and the produce of our garden 
and poultry-yard, which few Bushmen can boast of— and the 
dampers, and a pot of tea to each banqueter ; no wine, beer, 
nor spirits — those are only for shearing-time. We have just 
said grace (a fashion retained from the holy mother-country). 


1 A damper is a cake of flour baked without yeast, in the ashes. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


419 


when, bless my soul ! what a clatter without, what a tramping 
of feet, what a barking of dogs ! Some guests have arrived. 
They are always welcome in Bushland ! Perhaps a cattle-buyer 
in search of Vivian ; perhaps that cursed squatter, w hose sheep 
are always migrating to ours. Never mind, a hearty welcome to 
all — friend or foe. The door opens ; one, two, three strangers. 
More plates and knives ; draw your stools : just in time. First 
eat, then — what news ? 

Just as the strangers sit down, a voice is heard at the door — 

“ You will take particular care of this horse, young man : 
walk him about a little ; wash his back with salt and water. 
Just unbuckle the saddle-bags ; give them to me. Oh ! safe 
enough, I dare say — but papers of consequence. The prosperity 
of the colony depends on these papers. What would become of 
you all if any accident happened to them, I shudder to think.” 

And here, attired in a twill shooting-jacket, budding with 
gilt buttons, impressed with a well-remembered device ; a 
cabbage-leaf hat shading a face rarely seen in the Bush — a 
face smooth as razor could make it : neat, trim, respectable- 
looking as ever — his arm full of saddle-bags, and his nostrils 
gently distended, inhaling the steam of the banquet, walks in — 
Uncle Jack. 

Pisistratus (leaping up ). — “ Is it possible ? You in Australia ! 
— you in the Bush ! ” 

Uncle Jack, not recognising Pisistratus in the tall-bearded 
man who is making a plunge at him, recedes in alarm, exclaim- 
ing — “Who are you? — never saw you before, sir! I suppose 
you’ll say next that I owe you something ! ” 

Pisistratus. — “ Uncle Jack ! ” 

Uncle Jack (dropping his saddle-bags). — “Nepnew ! — Heaven 
be praised ! Come to my arms ! ” 

They embrace; mutual introductions to the company — Mr. 
Vivian, Mr. Bolding, on the one side — Major MacBlarney, Mr. 
Bullion, Mr. Emanuel Speck, on the other. Major MacBlarney 
is a fine portly man, with a slight Dublin brogue, who squeezes 
your hand as he would a sponge. Mr. Bullion — reserved and 
haughty — wears green spectacles, and gives you a forefinger. 
Mr. Emanuel Speck — unusually smart for the Bush, with a blue 
satin stock, and one of those blouses common in Germany, with 
elaborate hems, and pockets enough for Briareus to have put 
all his hands into at once — is thin, civil, and stoops — bows, 
smiles, and sits down to dinner again, with the air of a man 
accustomed to attend to the main chance. 


420 


THE CAXTONS : 


Uncle Jack (his mouth full of beef). — "Famous beef! — breed 
it yourself, eh ? Slow work that cattle-feeding ! — ” (Empties 
the rest of the pickle-jar into his plate.) " Must learn to go 
ahead in the New World — railway times these ! We can put 
him up to a thing or two — eh, Bullion ? ” (Whispering me) — 
" Great capitalist, that Bullion ! look at him ! ” 

Mr. Bullion (gravely). — "A thing or two ! If he has capital 
— you have said it, Mr. Tibbets.” (Looks round for the 
pickles — the green spectacles remain fixed upon Uncle Jack’s 
plate.) 

Uncle Jack. — " All that this colony wants is a few men like 
us, with capital and spirit. Instead of paying paupers to 
emigrate, they should pay rich men to come — eh, Speck ? ” 

While Uncle Jack turns to Mr. Speck, Mr. Bullion fixes his 
fork in a pickled onion in Jack’s plate, and transfers it to his 
own — observing, not as incidentally to the onion but to truth in 
general — " A man, gentlemen, in this country, has only to keep 
his eyes on the look-out, and seize on the first advantage ! — 
resources are incalculable ! ” 

Uncle Jack, returning to the plate and missing the onion, 
forestalls Mr. Speck in seizing the last potato — observing also, 
and in the same philosophical and generalising spirit as Mr. 
Bullion — "The great thing in this country is to be always 
beforehand : discovery and invention, promptitude and decision ! 
— that’s your go. ’Pon my life, one picks up sad vulgar sayings 
among the natives here ! — f that’s your go ! ’ shocking ! What 
would your poor father say ? How is he — good Austin ? 
Well ? — that’s right : and my dear sister ? Ah, that damnable 
Peck ! — still harping on the Anti-Capitalist, eh ? But I’ll make 
it up to you all now. Gentlemen, charge your glasses — a 
bumper- toast.” 

Mr. Speck (in an affected tone). — " I respond to the sentiment 
in a flowing cup. Glasses are not forthcoming.” 

Uncle Jack. — "A bumper-toast to the health of the future 
millionaire, whom I present to you in my nephew and sole heir 
— Pisistratus Caxton, Esq. Yes, gentlemen, I here publicly 
announce to you that this gentleman will be the inheritor of all 
my wealth — freehold, leasehold, agricultural, and mineral ; and 
when I am in the cold grave” — (takes out his pocket-hand- 
kerchief) — " and nothing remains of poor John Tibbets, look 
upon that gentleman, and say, ‘ John Tibbets lives again ! ’ ” 

Mr. Speck (chauntingly) — 

“ Let the bumper toast go round.” 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


421 


Guy Bolding. — “ Hip, hip, hurrah ! — three times three ! What 
fun ! ” 

Order is restored ; dinner-things are cleared ; each gentleman 
lights his pipe. 

Vivian. — “ What news from England ? ” 

Mr. Bullion. — “ As to the funds, sir?” 

Mr. Speck. — “ I suppose you mean, rather, as to the railways : 
great fortunes will be made there, sir; but still I think that our 
speculations here will ” 

Vivian. — “ I beg pardon for interrupting you, sir; but I 
thought, in the last papers, that there seemed something hostile 
in the temper of the French. No chance of a war ? ” 

Major MacBlarney. — “ Is it the wars you’d be after, young 
gintleman ? If me interest at the Horse Guards can avail you, 
bedad ! you’d make a proud man of Major MacBlarney.” 

Mr. Bullion (authoritatively). — “No, sir, we won’t have a 
war : the capitalists of Europe and Australia won’t have it. The 
Rothschilds, and a few others that shall be nameless, have only 
got to do this, sir” — (Mr. Bullion buttons up his pockets) — “and 
we’ll do it, too ; and then what becomes of your war, sir ? ” (Mr. 
Bullion snaps his pipe in the vehemence with which he brings 
his hand on the table, turns round the green spectacles, and 
takes up Mr. Speck’s pipe, which that gentleman had laid aside 
in an unguarded moment.) 

Vivian. — “ But the campaign in India ? ” 

Major MacBlarney. — “ Oh ! — and if it’s the Ingees 
you’d ” 

Mr. Bullion (refilling Speck’s pipe from Guy Bolding’s ex- 
clusive tobacco-pouch, and interrupting the Major). — “ India — 
that’s another matter : I don’t object to that ! War there — 
rather good for the money market than otherwise.” 

Vivian. — “ What news there, then ? ” 

Mr. Bullion.— “ Don’t know — haven’t got India stock.” 

Mr. Speck. — “ Nor I either. The day for India is over : this 
is our India now.” (Misses his tobacco-pipe ; sees it in Bullion’s 
mouth, and stares aghast ! — N.B . — The pipe is not a clay dodeen, 
but a small meerschaum — irreplaceable in Bushian d.) 

Pisistratus. — “Well, uncle, but I am at a loss to understand 
what new scheme you have in hand. Something benevolent, I 
am sure — something for your fellow-creatures - for philanthropy 
and mankind ? ” 

Mr. Bullion (starting). — “ Why, young man, are you as green 
as all that ? ” 


422 


THE CAXTONS : 


Pisistratus. — “ I, sir — no — Heaven forbid ! But my ” 

(Uncle Jack holds up his forefinger imploringly, and spills his 
tea over the pantaloons of his nephew !) 

Pisistratus, wroth at the effect of the tea, and therefore 
obdurate to the sign of the forefinger, continues rapidly, “ But 
my uncle is! — some Grand National- Imperial -Colonial -Anti- 
Monopoly ” 

Uncle Jack. — “ Pooh ! pooh ! What a droll boy it is ! ” 

Mr. Bullion (solemnly). — “With these notions, which not 
even in jest should be fathered on my respectable and intelli- 
gent friend here ” — (Uncle Jack bows) — “ I am afraid you will 
never get on in the world, Mr. Caxton. I don’t think our 
speculations will suit you ! It is growing late, gentlemen : we 
must push on.” 

Uncle Jack (jumping up). — “And I have so much to say to 
the dear boy. Excuse us : you know the feelings of an uncle ! ” 
(Takes my arm, and leads me out of the hut.) 

Uncle Jack (as soon as we are in the air).— “ You’ll ruin us — 
you, me, and your father and mother. Yes ! What do you 
think I work and slave myself for but for you and yours ? Ruin 
us all, I say, if you talk in that way before Bullion ! His heart 
is as hard as the Bank of England’s — and quite right he is, too. 
Fellow-creatures! — stuff! I have renounced that delusion — 
the generous follies of my youth ! I begin at last to live for my- 
self — that is, for self and relatives ! I shall succeed this time, 
you’ll see ! ” 

Pisistratus. — “ Indeed, uncle, I hope so sincerely ; and, to do 
you justice, there is always something very clever in your ideas 
— only they don’t ” 

Uncle Jack (interrupting me with a groan). — “The fortunes 
that other men have gained by my ideas ! — shocking to think of 
— What ! — and shall I be reproached if I live no longer for 
such a set of thieving, greedy, ungrateful knaves ? No, no ! 
Number One shall be my maxim ; and I’ll make you a Croesus, 
my boy — I will.” 

Pisistratus, after grateful acknowledgments for all prospective 
benefits, inquires how long Jack has been in Australia ; what 
brought him into the colony ; and what are his present views. 
Learns, to his astonishment, that Uncle Jack has been four years 
in the colony ; that he sailed the year after Pisistratus — induced, 
he says, by that illustrious example, and by some mysterious 
agency or commission, which he will not explain, emanating 
either from the Colonial Office or an Emigration Company. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


423 


Uncle Jack has been thriving wonderfully since he abandoned 
his fellow-creatures. His first speculation, on arriving at the 
colony, was in buying some houses in Sydney, which (by those 
fluctuations in prices common to the extremes of the colonial 
mind — which is one while skipping up the rainbow with Hope, 
and at another plunging into Acherontian abysses with Despair) 
he bought excessively cheap, and sold excessively dear. But 
his grand experiment has been in connection with the infant 
settlement of Adelaide, of which he considers himself one of 
the first founders ; and as, in the rush of emigration which 
poured to that favoured establishment in the earlier years of its 
existence, — rolling on its tide all manner of credulous and in- 
experienced adventurers, — vast sums were lost, so, of those sums, 
certain fragments and pickings were easily gripped and gathered 
up by a man of Uncle Jack’s readiness and dexterity. Uncle 
Jack had contrived to procure excellent letters of introduction 
to the colonial grandees : he got into close connection with 
some of the principal parties seeking to establish a monopoly of 
land (which has since been in great measure effected, by raising 
the price, and excluding the small fry of petty capitalists) ; and 
effectually imposed on them, as a man with a vast knowledge of 
public business — in the confidence of great men at home — con- 
siderable influence with the English press, &c. &c. And no 
discredit to their discernment ; for Jack, when he pleased, had 
a way with him that was almost irresistible. In this manner he 
contrived to associate himself and his earnings with men really 
of large capital, and long practical experience in the best mode 
by which that capital might be employed. He was thus ad- 
mitted into partnership (so far as his means went) with Mr. 
Bullion, who was one of the largest sheep-owners and land- 
holders in the colony ; though, having many other nests to 
feather, that gentleman resided in state at Sydney, and left his 
runs and stations to the care of overseers and superintendents. 
But land-jobbing was Jack's special delight ; and an ingenious 
German having lately declared that the neighbourhood of 
Adelaide betrayed the existence of those mineral treasures 
which have since been brought to day, Mr. Tibbets had per- 
suaded Bullion and the other gentleman now accompanying 
him, to undertake the land journey from Sydney to Adelaide, 
privily and quietly, to ascertain the truth of the German’s 
report, which was at present very little believed. If the ground 
failed of mines. Uncle Jack's account convinced his associates 
that mines quite as profitable might be found in the pockets of 


424 


THE CAXTONS : 


the raw adventurers, who were ready to buy one year at the 
dearest market, and driven to sell the next at the cheapest. 

"But,” concluded Uncle Jack, with a sly look, and giving 
me a poke in the ribs, " I’ve had to do with mines before now, 
and know what they are. I’ll let nobody but you into my pet 
scheme ; you shall go shares if you like. The scheme is as plain 
as a problem in Euclid, — if the German is right, and there are 
mines, why, the mines will be worked. Then miners must be 
employed ; but miners must eat, drink, and spend their money. 
The thing is to get that money. Do you take ? ” 

Pisistratus. — " Not at all ! ” 

Uncle Jack (majestically). — "A Great Grog and Store Depot! 
The miners want grog and stores, come to your depot ; you take 
their money ; Q.E.D. ! Shares — eh, you dog ? Cribs, as we said 
at school. Put in a paltry thousand or two, and you shall go 
halves/’ 

Pisistratus (vehemently). — " Not for all the mines of Potosi.” 

Uncle Jack (good-humouredly). — "Well, it shan’t be the 
worse for you. I shan’t alter my will, in spite of your want of 
confidence. Your young friend, — that Mr. Vivian, I think you 
call him — intelligent-looking fellow, sharper than the other, I 
guess,— would he like a share ? ” 

Pisistratus. — "In the grog depot? You had better ask 
him ! ” 

Uncle Jack. — "What! you pretend to be aristocratic in the 
Bush ! Too good. Ha, ha — they’re calling to me — we must be 
off.” 


Pisistratus. — " I will ride with you a few miles. What say 
you, Vivian ? and you, Guy ? ” 

The whole party now joined us. 

Guy prefers basking in the sun, and reading the "Lives of the 
Poets.” Vivian assents ; we accompany the party till sunset. 
Major MacBlarney prodigalises his offers of service in every 
conceivable department of life, and winds up with an assurance 
that, if we want anything in those departments connected with 
engineering — such as mining, mapping, surveying, &c., — he will 
serve us, bedad, for nothing, or next to it. We suspect Major 
MacBlarney to be a civil engineer, suffering under the innocent 
hallucination that he has been in the army. 

Mr. Speck lets out to me, in a confidential whisper, that Mr. 
Bullion is monstrous rich, and has made his fortune from small 
beginnings, by never letting a good thing go. I think of Uncle 
Jack’s pickled onion, and Mr. Speck’s meerschaum, and perceive. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


425 


with respectful admiration, that Mr. Bullion acts uniformly on 
one grand system. Ten minutes afterwards, Mr. Bullion ob- 
serves, in a tone equally confidential, that Mr. Speck, though so 
smiling and civil, is as sharp as a needle ; and that if I want any 
shares in the new speculation, or indeed in any other, I had 
better come at once to Bullion, who would not deceive me for 
my weight in gold. “ Not,” added Bullion, “ that I have any- 
thing to say against Speck. He is well enough to do in the 
world — a warm man, sir ; and when a man is really warm, I am 
the last person to think of his little faults, and turn on him the 
cold shoulder.” 

“ Adieu,” said Uncle Jack, pulling out once more his pocket- 
handkerchief ; “ my love to all at home.” And sinking his 
voice into a whisper, “ If ever you think better of the grog 
and store depot, nephew, you’ll find an uncle’s heart in this 
bosom ! ” 


CHAPTER II 

TT was night as Vivian and myself rode slowly home. Night 
in Australia ! How impossible to describe its beauty ! Heaven 
seems, in that new world, so much nearer to earth ! Every star 
stands out so bright and particular, as if fresh from the time 
when the Maker willed it. And the moon like a large silvery 
sun; — the least object on which it shines so distinct and so still . 1 
Now and then a sound breaks the silence, but a sound so much 
in harmony with the solitude that it only deepens its charms. 
Hark ! the low cry of a night-bird, from yonder glen amidst the 
small grey gleaming rocks. Hark ! as night deepens, the bark 
of the distant watch-dog, or the low strange howl of his more 
savage species, from which he defends the fold. Hark ! the 
echo catches the sound, and flings it sportively from hill to hill 
— farther, and farther, and farther down, till all again is hushed, 
and the flowers hang noiseless over your head, as you ride 
through a grove of the giant gum-trees. Now the air is literally 
charged with the odours, and the sense of fragrance grows almost 
painful in its pleasure. You quicken your pace, and escape again 

1 “ I have frequently,” says Mr. Wilkinson, in his invaluable work upon 
South Australia, at once so graphic and so practical, “been out in a 
journey in such a night, and whilst allowing the horse his own time to 
walk along the road, have solaced myself by reading in the still moon- 
light.” 


426 


THE CAXTONS: 


into the open plains and the full moonlight, and through the 
slender tea-trees catch the gleam of the river, and in the ex- 
quisite fineness of the atmosphere hear the soothing sound of 
its murmur. 

Pisistratus. — “ And this land has become the heritage of our 
people ! Methinks I see, as I gaze around, the scheme of the 
All-beneficent Father disentangling itself clear through the 
troubled history of mankind. How mysteriously, while Europe 
rears its populations, and fulfils its civilising mission, these realms 
have been concealed from its eyes — divulged to us just as civilis- 
ation needs the solution to its problems ; a vent for feverish 
energies, baffled in the crowd ; offering bread to the famished, 
hope to the desperate ; in very truth enabling the ‘ New World 
to redress the balance of the Old.’ Here, what a Latium for the 
wandering spirits — 

* On various seas by various tempests toss’d.’ 

Here, the actual /Eneid passes before our eyes. From the huts 
of the exiles scattered over this hardier Italy, who cannot see in 
the future — 

‘ A race from whence new Alban sires shall come, 

And the long glories of a future Home ? ’ ” 

Vivian (mournfully). — “Is it from the outcasts of the work- 
house, the prison, and the transport-ship, that a second Rome is 
to arise ? ” 

Pisistratus. — “There is something in this new soil — in the 
labour it calls forth, in the hope it inspires, in the sense of 
property, which I take to be the core of social morals — that 
expedites the work of redemption with marvellous rapidity. 
Take them altogether, whatever their origin, or whatever brought 
them hither, they are a fine, manly, frank-hearted race, these 
colonists now ! — rude, not mean, especially in the Bush, and, I 
suspect, will ultimately become as gallant and honest a popula- 
tion as that now springing up in South Australia, from which 
convicts are excluded — and happily excluded — for the distinc- 
tion will sharpen emulation. As to the rest, and in direct 
answer to your question, I fancy even the emancipist part of 
our population every whit as respectable as the mongrel robbers 
under Romulus/’ 

Vivian. — “But were they not soldiers? — I mean the first 
Romans ? ” 

Pisistratus. — “ My dear cousin, we are in advance of those 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


427 


grim outcasts, if we can get lands, houses, and wives (though 
the last is difficult, and it is well that we have no white Sabines 
in the neighbourhood), without that same soldiering which was 
the necessity of their existence.” 

V ivian (alter a pause ). — “ I have written to my father, and to 
yours more fully — stating in the one letter my wish, in the other 
trying to explain the feelings from which it springs.” 

Pisistratus. — “ Are the letters gone ? ” 

Vivian. — “ Yes.” 

Pisistratus. — “ And you would not show them to me ! ” . 

Vivian . — “ Do not speak so reproachfully. I promised your 
father to pour out my whole heart to him, whenever it was 
troubled and at strife. I promise you now that I will go by his 
advice.” 

Pisistratus (disconsolately). — “ What is there in this military 
life for which you yearn that can yield you more food for 
healthful excitement and stirring adventure than your present 
pursuits afford ? ” 

Vivian. — “D istinction! You do not see the difference be- 
tween us. You have but a fortune to make, I have a name to 
redeem ; you look calmly on to the future ; I have a dark blot 
to erase from the past.” 

Pisistratus (soothingly). — “ It is erased. Five years of no weak 
be wailings, but of manly reform, steadfast industry, conduct so 
blameless that even Guy (whom I look upon as the incarnation 
of blunt English honesty) half doubts whether you are * cute 
enough for ' a station * — a character already so high that I 
long for the hour when you will again take your father’s spotless 
name, and give me the pride to own our kinship to the world, 
— all this surely redeems the errors arising from an uneducated 
childhood and a wandering youth.” 

Vivian (leaning over his horse, and putting his hand on my 
shoulder). — “ My dear friend, what do I owe you ! ” Then 
recovering his emotion, and pushing on at a quicker pace, while 
he continues to speak, “But can you see that, just in proportion 
as my comprehension of right would become clear and strong, 
so my conscience would become also more sensitive and re- 
proachful ; and the better I understand my gallant father, the 
more I must desire to be as he would have had his son. Do 
you think it would content him, could he see me branding 
cattle, and bargaining with bullock-drivers ? — Was it not the 
strongest wish of his heart that I should adopt his own career ? 
Have I not heard you say that he would have had you too a 


428 


THE CAXTONS : 


soldier, but for your mother ? I have no mother ! If I made 
thousands, and tens of thousands, bv this ignoble calling, would 
they give my father half the pleasure that he would feel at 
seeing my name honourably mentioned in a despatch ? No, no ! 
You have banished the gipsy blood, and now the soldier’s breaks 
out ! Oh for one glorious day in which I may clear my way 
into fair repute, as our fathers before us ! — when tears of proud 
joy may flow from those eyes that have wept such hot drops at 
my shame. When she, too, in her high station beside that sleek 
lord, • may say, f His heart was not so vile, after all ! ’ Don’t 
argue with me — it is in vain ! Pray, rather, that I may have 
leave to work out my own way ; for I tell you that, if con- 
demned to stay here, I may not murmur aloud — I may go through 
this round of low duties as the brute turns the wheel of a mill ! 
but my heart will prey on itself, and you shall soon write on my 
gravestone the epitaph of the poor poet you told us of, whose 
true disease was the thirst of glory — ‘ Here lies one whose name 
was written in water.’ ” 

I had no answer : that contagious ambition made my own 
veins run more warmly, and my own heart beat with a louder 
tumult. Amidst the pastoral scenes, and under the tranquil 
moonlight of the New, the Old World, even in me, rude Bush- 
man, claimed for awhile its son. But as we rode on, the air, 
so inexpressibly buoyant, yet soothing as an anodyne, restored 
me to peaceful Nature. Now the flocks, in their snowy clusters, 
were seen sleeping under the stars ; hark ! the welcome of the 
watch-dogs ; see the light gleaming far from the chink of the 
door ! And, pausing, I said aloud, “ No, there is more glory 
in laying these rough foundations of a mighty state, though no 
trumpets resound with your victory — though no laurels shall 
shadow your tomb — than in forcing the onward progress of 
your race over burning cities and hecatombs of men ! ” I looked 
round for Vivian’s answer ; but, ere I spoke, he had spurred 
from my side, and I saw the wild dogs slinking back from the 
hoofs of his horse, as he rode at speed, on the sward, through 
the moonlight. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


429 


CHAPTER III 

H^HE weeks and the months rolled on, and the replies to 
Vivian’s letters came at last ; I foreboded too well their 
purport. I knew that my father could not set himself in op- 
position to the deliberate and cherished desire of a man who 
had now arrived at the full strength of his understanding, and 
must be left at liberty to make his own election of the paths 
of life. Long after that date, I saw Vivian’s letter to my father ; 
and even his conversation had scarcely prepared me for the 
pathos of that confession of a mind remarkable alike for its 
strength and its weakness. If born in the age, or submitted 
to the influences, of religious enthusiasm, here was a nature 
that, awaking from sin, could not have been contented with the 
sober duties of mediocre goodness — that would have plunged 
into the fiery depths of monkish fanaticism — wrestled with the 
fiend in the hermitage, or marched barefoot on the infidel with a 
sackcloth for armour — the cross for a sword. Now, the im- 
patient desire for redemption took a more mundane direction, 
but with something that seemed almost spiritual in its fervour. 
And this enthusiasm flowed through strata of such profound 
melancholy ! Deny it a vent, and it might sicken into lethargy, 
or fret itself into madness — give it the vent, and it might vivify 
and fertilise as it swept along. 

My father’s reply to this letter was what might be expected. 
It gently reinforced the old lessons in the distinctions between 
aspirations towards the perfecting ourselves — aspirations that 
are never in vain — and the morbid passion for applause from 
others, which shifts conscience from our own bosoms to the 
confused Babel of the crowd, and calls it “fame.” But my 
father, in his counsels, did not seek to oppose a mind so obstin- 
ately bent upon a single course — he sought rather to guide and 
strengthen it in the way it should go. The seas of human life 
are wide. Wisdom may suggest the voyage, but it must first 
look to the condition of the ship, and the nature of the 
merchandise to exchange. Not every vessel that sails from 
Tarshish can bring back the gold of Ophir ; but shall it there- 
fore rot in the harbour ? No ; give its sails to the wind ! 

But I had expected that Roland’s letter to his son would 
have been full of joy and exultation — joy there was none in 
it, yet exultation there might be, though serious, grave, and 


430 


THE CAXTONS: 


subdued. In the proud assent that the old soldier gave to his 
son’s wish, in his entire comprehension of motives so akin to 
his own nature, there was yet a visible sorrow ; it seemed 
even as if he constrained himself to the assent he gave. Not 
till I had read it again and again could I divine Roland’s feelings 
while he wrote. At this distance of time, I comprehend them 
well. Had he sent from his side, into noble warfare, some boy 
fresh to life, new to sin, with an enthusiasm pure and single- 
hearted as his own young chivalrous ardour, then, with all a 
soldier’s joy, he had yielded a cheerful tribute to the hosts of 
England ; but here he recognised, though perhaps dimly, not 
the frank military fervour, but the stern desire of expiation, 
and in that thought he admitted forebodings that would have 
been otherwise rejected, so that, at the close of the letter, it 
seemed not the fiery war-seasoned Roland that wrote, but rather 
some timid, anxious mother. Warnings and entreaties and 
cautions not to be rash, and assurances that the best soldiers 
were ever the most prudent : were these the counsels of the 
fierce veteran, who, at the head of the forlorn hope, had 
mounted the wall at , his sword between his teeth ! 

But, whatever his presentiments, Roland had yielded at once 
to his son’s prayer — hastened to London at the receipt of his 
letter — obtained a commission in a regiment now in active 
service in India ; and that commission was made out in his son’s 
name. The commission, with an order to join the regiment as 
soon as possible, accompanied the letter. 

And Vivian, pointing to the name addressed to him, said, 
“Now, indeed, I may resume this name, and, next to Heaven, 
will I hold it sacred ! It shall guide me to glory in life, or my 
father shall read it, without shame, on my tomb ! ** I see him 
before me, as he stood then — his form erect, his dark eyes 
solemn in their light, a serenity in his smile, a grandeur on his 
brow, that I had never marked till then ! Was that the same 
man I had recoiled from as the sneering cynic, shuddered at as 
the audacious traitor, or wept over as the cowering outcast ? 
How little the nobleness of aspect depends on symmetry of 
feature, or the mere proportions of form ! What dignity robes 
the man who is filled with a lofty thought ! 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


431 


CHAPTER IV 

m is gone ! he has left a void in my existence. I had grown 
to love him so well ; I had been so proud when men 
praised him. My love was a sort of self-love — I had looked 
upon him in part as the work of my own hands. I am a long 
time ere I can settle back, with good heart, to my pastoral life. 
Before my cousin went, we cast up our gains, and settled our 
shares. When he resigned the allowance which Roland had 
made him, his father secretly gave to me, for his use, a sum 
equal to that which I and Guy Bolding brought into the common 
stock. Roland had raised the sum upon mortgage ; and, while 
the interest was a trivial deduction from his income, compared 
to the former allowance, the capital was much more useful to 
his son than a mere yearly payment could have been. Thus, 
between us, we had a considerable sum for Australian settlers — 
£4500. For the first two years we made nothing ; indeed, 
great part of the first year was spent in learning our art, at the 
station of an old settler. But, at the end of the third year, our 
flocks having then become very considerable, we cleared a 
return beyond my most sanguine expectations. And when my 
cousin left, just in the sixth year of exile, our shares amounted 
to <£4000 each, exclusive of the value of the two stations. My 
cousin had, at first, wished that I should forward his share to 
his father, but he soon saw that Roland would never take it; 
and it was finally agreed that it should rest in my hands, for me 
to manage for him, send him out an interest at five per cent., 
and devote the surplus profits to the increase of his capital. I 
had now, therefore, the control of £12,000, and we might 
consider ourselves very respectable capitalists. I kept on the 
cattle station, by the aid of the Will-o’-the-Wisp, for about two 
years after Vivian’s departure (we had then had it altogether 
for five). At the end of that time, I sold it and the stock to 
great advantage. And the sheep — for the “ brand ” of which I 
had a high reputation — having wonderfully prospered in the 
meanwhile, I thought we might safely extend our speculations 
into new ventures. Glad, too, of a change of scene, I left 
Bolding in charge of the flocks, and bent my course to Adelaide, 
for the fame of that new settlement had already disturbed the 
peace of the Bush. I found Uncle Jack residing near Adelaide, 
in a very handsome villa, with all the signs and appurtenances 


432 


THE CAXTONS: 


of colonial opulence ; and report, perhaps, did not exaggerate 
the gains he had made : — so many strings to his bow — and each 
arrow, this time, seemed to have gone straight to the white of 
the butts. I now thought I had acquired knowledge and caution 
sufficient to avail myself of Uncle Jack’s ideas, without ruining 
myself by following them out in his company ; and I saw a kind 
of retributive justice in making his brain minister to the fortunes 
which his ideality and constructiveness, according to Squills, 
had served so notably to impoverish. I must here gratefully 
acknowledge, that I owed much to this irregular genius. The 
investigation of the supposed mines had proved unsatisfactory 
to Mr. Bullion ; and they were not fairly discovered till a few 
years after. But Jack had convinced himself of their existence, 
and purchased, on his own account, “ for an old song,” some 
barren land, which he was persuaded would prove to him a 
Golconda, one day or other, under the euphonious title (which, 
indeed, it ultimately established) of the “ Tibbets’ Wheal.” 
The suspension of the mines, however, fortunately suspended 
the existence of the Grog and Store Depot, and Uncle Jack 
was now assisting in the foundation of Port Philip. Profiting 
by his advice, I adventured in that new settlement some timid 
and wary purchases, which I resold to considerable advantage. 
Meanwhile, I must not omit to state briefly what, since my 
departure from England, had been the ministerial career of 
Trevanion. 

That refining fastidiousness, — that scrupulosity of political 
conscience, which had characterised him as an independent 
member, and often served, in the opinion both of friend and of 
foe, to give the attribute of general impracticability to a mind that, 
in all details , was so essentially and laboriously practical — might 
perhaps have founded Trevanion’s reputation as a minister, if 
lie could have been a minister without colleagues — if, standing 
alone, and from the necessary height, he could have placed, 
clear and single, before the world, his exquisite honesty of 
purpose, and the width of a statesmanship marvellously accom- 
plished and comprehensive. But Trevanion could not amalga- 
mate with others, nor subscribe to the discipline of a cabinet in 
which he was not the chief, especially in a policy which must 
have been thoroughly abhorrent to such a nature — a policy that, 
of late years, has distinguished not one faction alone, but has 
seemed so forced upon the more eminent political leaders, on 
either side, that they who take the more charitable view of 
things may, perhaps, hold it to arise from the necessity of the 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


4,33 


age, fostered by the temper of the public — I mean the policy 
of Expediency. Certainly not in this book will I introduce the 
angry elements of party politics ; and how should I know much 
about them ? All that I have to say is, that, right or wrong, 
such a policy must have been at war, every moment, with each 
principle of Trevanion’s statesmanship, and fretted each fibre of 
his moral constitution. The aristocratic combinations which his 
alliance with the Castleton interest had brought to his aid served 
perhaps to fortify his position in the cabinet ; yet aristocratic 
combinations were of small avail against what seemed the atmos- 
pherical epidemic of the age. I could see how his situation had 
preyed on his mind, when I read a paragraph in the news- 
papers, “ that it was reported, on good authority, that Mr. 
Trevanion had tendered his resignation, but had been prevailed 
upon to withdraw it, as his retirement at that moment would 
break up the government.” Some months afterwards came 
another paragraph, to the effect, “that Mr. Trevanion was taken 
suddenly ill, and that it was feared his illness was of a nature 
to preclude his resuming his official labours.” Then parliament 
broke up. Before it met again, Mr. Trevanion was gazetted as 
Earl of Ulverstone — a title that had been once in his family — 
and had left the administration, unable to encounter the fatigues 
of office. To an ordinary man, the elevation to an earldom, 
passing over the lesser honours in the peerage, would have 
seemed no mean close to a political career ; but I felt what 
profound despair of striving against circumstance for utility — 
what entanglements with his colleagues, whom he could neither 
conscientiously support, nor, according to his high old-fashioned 
notions of party honour and etiquette, energetically oppose — 
had driven him to abandon that stormy scene in which his 
existence had been passed. The House of Lords, to that active 
intellect, was as the retirement of some warrior of old into the 
cloisters of a convent. The Gazette that chronicled the earldom 
of Ulverstone was the proclamation that Albert Trevanion lived 
no more for the world of public men. And, indeed, from that 
date his career vanished out of sight. Trevanion died — the 
Earl of Ulverstone made no sign. 

I had hitherto written but twice to Lady Ellinor during my 
exile — once upon the marriage of Fanny with Lord Castleton, 
which took place about six months after I sailed from England, 
and again, when thanking her husband for some rare animals, 
equine, pastoral, and bovine, which he had sent as presents to 
Bolding and myself. I wrote again after Trevanion’s elevation 

2 E 


434 


THE CAXTONS : 


to the peerage, and received, in due time, a reply, confirming 
all my impressions — for it was full of bitterness and gall, accusa- 
tions of the world, fears for the country : Richelieu himself 
could not have taken a gloomier view of things, when his levees 
were deserted, and his power seemed annihilated before the 
“ Day of Dupes.” Only one gleam of comfort appeared to 
visit Lady Ulverstone’s breast, and thence to settle prospectively 
over the future of the world — a second son had been born to 
Lord Castleton ; to that son would descend the estates of 
Ulverstone, and the representation of that line distinguished 
by Trevanion, and enriched by Trevanion’s wife. Never was 
there a child of such promise ! Not Virgil himself, when he 
called on the Sicilian Muses to celebrate the advent of a son 
to Pollio, ever sounded a loftier strain. Here was one, now, 
perchance, engaged on words of two syllables, called — 

“ By labouring nature to sustain 
The nodding frame of heaven, and earth, and main, 

See to their base restored, earth, sea, and air, 

And joyful ages from behind in crowding ranks appear ! ” 

Happy dream which Heaven sends to grand-parents 1 re- 
baptism of Hope in the font whose drops sprinkle the grand- 
child ! 

Time flies on ; affairs continue to prosper. I am just leaving 
the bank at Adelaide with a satisfied air, when I am stopped in 
the street by bowing acquaintances, who never shook me by 
the hand before. They shake me by the hand now, and cry — 
“ I wish you joy, sir. That brave fellow, your namesake, is of 
course your near relation.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“ Have not you seen the papers ? Here they are. 

“ Gallant conduct of Ensign de Caxton — promoted to a lieu- 
tenancy on the field.” — I wipe my eyes, and cry — “ Thank 
Heaven — it is my cousin!” Then new hand-shakings, new 
groups gather round. I feel taller by the head than I was 
before ! We, grumbling English, always quarrelling with each 
other — the world not wide enough to hold us ; and yet, when 
in the far land some bold deed is done by a countryman, how 
we feel that we are brothers ! how our hearts warm to each other ! 
What a letter I wrote home ! and how joyously I went back to the 
Bush ! The Will-o’-the-Wisp has attained to a cattle-station of 
his own. I go fifty miles out of my way to tell him the news and 
give him the newspaper ; for he knows now that his old master. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


435 


Vivian, is a Cumberland man — a Caxton. Poor Will-o’-the Wisp ! 
The tea that night tasted uncommonly like whisky-punch ! 
Father Mathew, forgive us — but if you had been a Cumberland 
man, and heard the Will-o’-the-Wisp roaring out, “ Blue Bonnets 
over the Borders,” I think your tea, too, would not have come 
out of the — caddy ! 


CHAPTER V 

A GREAT change has occurred in our household. Guy’s 
father is dead — his latter years cheered by the accounts of 
his son’s steadiness and prosperity, and by the touching proofs 
thereof which Guy has exhibited. For he insisted on repaying 
to his father the old college debts, and the advance of the 
£1500, begging that the money might go towards his sister’s 
portion. Now, after the old gentleman’s death, the sister re- 
solved to come out and live with her dear brother Guy. Another 
wing is built to the hut. Ambitious plans for a new stone house, 
to be commenced the following year, are entertained ; and Guy 
has brought back from Adelaide not only a sister, but, to my 
utter astonishment, a wife, in the shape of a fair friend by whom 
the sister is accompanied. 

The young lady did quite right to come to Australia if she 
wanted to be married. She was very pretty, and all the beaux 
in Adelaide were round her in a moment. Guy was in love the 
first day — in a rage with thirty rivals the next — in despair the 
third — put the question the fourth — and before the fifteenth 
was a married man, hastening back with a treasure, of which 
he fancied all the world was conspiring to rob him. His sister 
was quite as pretty as her friend, and she, too, had offers enough 
the moment she landed — only she was romantic and fastidious, 
and I fancy Guy told her that “ I was just made for her.” 

However, charming though she be — with pretty blue eyes and 
her brother’s frank smile — I am not enchanted. I fancy she lost 
all chance of my heart by stepping across the yard in a pair of 
silk shoes. If I were to live in the Bush, give me a wife as a 
companion who can ride well, leap over a ditch, walk beside me 
when I go forth, gun in hand, for a shot at the kangaroos. But 
I dare not go on with the list of a Bush husband’s requisites. 
This change, however, serves, for various reasons, to quicken my 
desire of return. Ten years have now elapsed, and I have 
already obtained a much larger fortune than I had calculated 


THE CAXTONS 


4.36 

to make. Sorely to Guy’s honest grief, I therefore wound up 
our affairs, and dissolved partnership : for he had decided to 
pass his life in the colony — and with his pretty wife, who has 
grown very fond of him, I don’t wonder at it. Guy takes my 
share of the station and stock off my hands ; and, all accounts 
squared between us, I bid farewell to the Bush. Despite all 
the motives that drew my heart homeward, it was not without 
participation in the sorrow of my old companions, that I took 
leave of those I might never see again on this side the grave. 
The meanest man in my employ had grown a friend ; and when 
those hard hands grasped mine, and from many a breast that 
once had waged fierce war with the world came the soft blessing 
to the Homeward-bound — with a tender thought for the Old 
England, that had been but a harsh stepmother to them — I 
felt a choking sensation, which I suspect is little known to the 
friendships of Mayfair and St. James’s. I was forced to get off 
with a few broken words, when I had meant to part with a long 
speech : perhaps the broken words pleased the audience better. 
Spurring away, I gained a little eminence and looked back. 
There were the poor faithful fellows gathered in a ring, watching 
me — their hats off — their hands shading their eyes from the sun. 
And Guy had thrown himself on the ground, and I heard his 
loud sobs distinctly. His wife was leaning over his shoulder, 
trying to soothe. Forgive him, fair helpmate, you will be all in 
the world to him — to-morrow ! And the blue-eyed sister, where 
was she ? Had she no tears for the rough friend who laughed 
at the silk shoes, and taught her how to hold the reins, and 
never fear that the old pony would run away with her ? What 
matter ? — if the tears were shed, they were hidden tears. No 
shame in them, fair Ellen ? — since then, thou hast wept happy 
tears over thy first-born — those tears have long ago washed away 
all bitterness in the innocent memories of a girl’s first fancy. 


CHAPTER VI 

DATED FROM ADELAIDE 

TMAGINE my wonder — Uncle Jack has just been with me, and 
— but hear the dialogue — 

Uncle Jack. — “So you are positively going back to that 
smoky, fusty, Old England, just when you are on your high 
road to a plumb. A plumb, sir, at least ! They all say there is 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


437 


not a more rising young man in the colony. I think Bullion 
would take you into partnership. What are you in such a 
hurry for ? ” 

Pisistratus. — “ To see my father and mother and uncle 

Roland, and ” (was about to name some one else, but stops). 

“ You see, my dear uncle, I came out solely with the idea of 
repairing my father’s losses in that unfortunate speculation of 
The Capitalist .” 

Uncle Jack (coughs and ejaculates). — “ That villain Peck ! ” 

Pisistratus . — “ And to have a few thousands to invest in poor 
Roland’s acres. The object is achieved : why should I stay ? ” 

Uncle Jack. — “ A few paltry thousands, when in twenty years 
more, at the farthest, you would wallow in gold ! ” 

Pisistratus. — “ A man learns in the Bush how happy life can 
be with plenty of employment and very little money. I shall 
practise that lesson in England.” 

Uncle Jack. — “Y our mind’s made up?” 

Pisistratus. — “ And my place in the ship taken.” 

Uncle Jack. — “T hen there’s no more to be said.” (Hums, 
haws, and examines his nails — filbert nails, not a speck on them. 
Then suddenly, and jerking up his head) — “That Capitalist! 
it has been on my conscience, nephew, ever since; and, some- 
how or other, since I have abandoned the cause of my fellow- 
creatures, I think I have cared more for my relations.” 

Pisistratus (smiling as he remembers his father’s shrewd pre- 
dictions thereon). — “ Naturally, my dear uncle : any child who 
has thrown a stone into a pond knows that a circle disappears as 
it widens.” 

Uncle Jack. — “V ery true — I shall make a note of that, appli- 
cable to my next speech, in defence of what they call the 
‘ land monopoly.’ Thank you — stone — circle ! ” (Jots down notes 
in his pocket-book.) “ But, to return to the point : I am well 
off’ now — I have neither wife nor child ; and I feel that I ought 
to bear my share in your father’s loss: it was our joint specula- 
tion. And your father, good, dear Austin ! paid my debts into 
the bargain. And how cheering the punch was that night, when 
your mother wanted to scold poor Jack ! And the £300 Austin 
lent me when I left him : nephew, that was the remaking of 
me — the acorn of the oak I have planted. So here they are ” 
(added Uncle Jack, with a heroical effort — and he extracted from 
the pocket-book bills for a sum between three and four thou- 
sand pounds). “There, it is done ; and I shall sleep better for 
it ! ” (With that Uncle Jack got up, and bolted out of the room.) 


438 


THE CAXTONS : 


“ Ought I to take the money ? Why, I think yes ! — it is but 
fair. Jack must be really rich, and can well spare the money ; 
besides, if he wants it again, I know my father will let him have 
it. And, indeed, Jack caused the loss of the whole sum lost on 
The Capitalist, &c. : and this is not quite the half of what my 
father paid away. But is it not fine in Uncle Jack ! Well, my 
father was quite right in his milder estimate of Jack’s scalene 
conformation, and it is hard to judge of a man when he is needy 
and down in the world. When one grafts one’s ideas on one’s 
neighbour’s money, they are certainly not so grand as when 
they spring from one’s own.” 

Uncle Jack (popping his head into the room). — “ And, you see, 
you can double that money if you will just leave it in my hands 
for a couple of years — you have no notion what I shall make of 
the Tibbets’ Wheal ! Did I tell you— the German was quite 
right — I have been offered already seven times the sum which I 
gave for the land. But I am now looking out for a company : let 
me put you down for shares to the amount at least of those 
trumpery bills. Cent, per cent. — I guarantee cent, per cent. ! ” 
(And Uncle Jack stretches out those famous smooth hands of 
his, with a tremulous motion of the ten eloquent fingers.) 

Pisistratus. — “ Ah ! my dear uncle, if you repent ” 

Uncle Jack. — “ Repent ! when I offer you cent, per cent., on 
my personal guarantee ! ” 

Pisistratus (carefully putting the bills into his breast coat 
pocket). — “Then, if you don’t repent, my dear uncle allow me 
to shake you by the hand, and say that I will not consent to 
lessen my esteem and admiration for the high principle which 
prompts this restitution, by confounding it with trading associa- 
tions of loans, interests, and copper mines. And, you see, since 
this sum is paid to my father, I have no right to invest it 
without his permission.” 

Uncle Jack (with emotion ). — “ e Esteem, admiration, high 
principle!’ — these are pleasant words from you, nephew.” 
(Then, shaking his head, and smiling ). — “ You sly dog ! you are 
quite right : get the bills cashed at once. And hark ye, sir, 
just keep out of my way, will you ? and don’t let me coax from 
you a farthing.” (Uncle Jack slams the door and rushes out. 
Pisistratus draws the bills warily from his pocket, half-suspecting 
they must already have turned into withered leaves, like fairy 
money ; slowly convinces himself that the bills are good bills ; 
and, by lively gestures, testifies his delight and astonishment.) 
Scene changes. 


PART XVIII 


CHAPTER I 

^DIEU, thou beautiful land ! Canaan of the exiles, and 
Ararat to many a shattered Ark ! Fair cradle of a race 
for whom the unbounded heritage of a future, that no sage 
can conjecture, no prophet divine, lies afar in the golden 
promise-light of Time ! — destined, perchance, from the sins and 
sorrows of a civilisation struggling with its own elements of 
decay, to renew the youth of the world, and transmit the great 
soul of England through the cycles of Infinite Change. All 
climates that can best ripen the products of earth, or form into 
various character and temper the different families of man, 
"rain influences” from the heaven, that smiles so benignly 
on those who had once shrunk, ragged, from the wind, or 
scowled on the thankless sun. Here, the hardy air of the 
chill Mother Isle, there the mild warmth of Italian autumns, 
or the breathless glow of the tropics. And with the beams 
of every climate, glides subtle Hope. Of her there, it may 
be said, as of Light itself, in those exquisite lines of a neglected 
poet — 

“ Through the soft ways of heaven, and air, and sea, 

Which open all their pores to thee ; 

Like a clear river thou dost glide — 

All the world’s bravery that delights our eyes, 

Is but thy several liveries ; 

Thou the rich dye on them bestowest ; 

Thy nimble pencil paints the landscape as thou goest.” 1 

Adieu, my kind nurse and sweet foster-mother ! — a long and 
a last adieu ! Never had I left thee but for that louder voice of 
Nature which calls the child to the parent, and woos us from 
the labours we love the best by the chime in the Sabbath-bells 
of Home. 

Cowley’s “ Ode to Light.” 

439 


440 


THE CAXTONS: 


No one can tell how dear the memory of that wild Bush life 
becomes to him who has tried it with a fitting spirit How often 
it haunts him in the commonplace of more civilised scenes ! 
Its dangers, its risks, its sense of animal health, its bursts of 
adventure, its intervals of careless repose : the fierce gallop 
through a very sea of wide rolling plains — the still saunter, 
at night, through woods, never changing their leaves ; with the 
moon, clear as sunshine, stealing slant through their clusters 
of flowers. With what an effort we reconcile ourselves to the 
trite cares and vexed pleasures, “the quotidian ague of frigid 
impertinences,” to which we return ! How strong and black 
stands my pencil-mark in this passage of the poet from whom 
I have just quoted before ! — 

“We are here among the vast and noble scenes of Nature — 
we are there among the pitiful shifts of policy ; we walk here, 
in the light and open ways of the Divine Bounty — we grope 
there, in the dark and confused labyrinth of human malice.” 1 

But I .weary you, reader. The New World vanishes — now a 
line — now a speck ; let us turn away, with the face to the Old. 

Amongst my fellow-passengers, how many there are returning 
home disgusted, disappointed, impoverished, ruined, throwing 
themselves again on those unsuspecting poor friends, who 
thought they had done with the luckless good-for-naughts for 
ever. For, don’t let me deceive thee, reader, into supposing 
that every adventurer to Australia has the luck of Pisistratus. 
Indeed, though the poor labourer, and especially the poor 
operative from London and the great trading towns (who has 
generally more of the quick knack of learning — the adaptable 
faculty — required in a new colony, than the simple agricultural 
labourer), are pretty sure to succeed, the class to which I belong 
is one in which failures are numerous and success the exception 
— I mean young men with scholastic education and the habits 
of gentlemen — with small capital and sanguine hopes. But 
this, in ninety-nine times out of a hundred, is not the fault of 
the colony, but of the emigrants. It requires, not so much 
intellect as a peculiar turn of intellect, and a fortunate combina- 
tion of physical qualities, easy temper, and quick mother-wit, 
to make a small capitalist a prosperous Bushman . 2 And if you 

1 Cowley on Town and Country. ( Discourse on Agriculture. ) 

2 How true are the following remarks : — 

“Action is the first great requisite of a colonist (that is, a pastoral or 
agricultural settler). With a young man, the tone of his mind is more 
important than his previous pursuits. I have known men of an active, 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


441 


could see the sharks that swim round a man just dropped at 
Adelaide or Sydney, with one or two thousand pounds in his 
pocket ! Hurry out of the towns as fast as you can, my young 
emigrant ; turn a deaf ear, for the present at least, to all jobbers 
and speculators ; make friends with some practised old Bush- 
man ; spend several months at his station before you hazard 
your capital ; take with you a temper to bear everything and 
sigh for nothing ; put your whole heart in what you are about ; 
never call upon Hercules when your cart sticks in the rut, and, 
whether you feed sheep or breed cattle, your success is but a 
question of time. 

But, whatever I owed to nature, I owed also something to 
fortune. I bought my sheep at little more than 7s. each. 
When I left, none were worth less than 15s., and the fat sheep 
were worth ^l. 1 I had an excellent shepherd, and my whole 
care, night and day, was the improvement of the flock. I was 
fortunate, too, in entering Australia before the system miscalled 

energetic, contented disposition, with a good flow of animal spirits, who 
had been bred in luxury and refinement, succeed better than men bred as 
farmers, who were always hankering after bread and beer, and market 
ordinaries of Old England. ... To be dreaming when you should be 
looking after your cattle is a terrible drawback. . . . There are certain 
persons who, too lazy and too extravagant to succeed in Europe, sail for 
Australia under the idea that fortunes are to be made there by a sort of 
legerdemain, spend or lose their capital in a very short space of time, and 
return to England to abuse the place, the people, and everything connected 
with colonisation.” — Sidney's Australian Handbook — admirable for its 
wisdom and compactness. 

1 Lest this seem an exaggeration, I venture to annex an extract from a 
MS. letter to the author from Mr. George Blakeston Wilkinson, author of 
“ South Australia ” : — 

“ I will instance the case of one person, who had been a farmer in 
England, and emigrated with about £2000 about seven years since. On 
his arrival he found that the prices of sheep had fallen from about 30s. to 
5s. or 6s. per head, and he bought some well-bred flocks at these prices. 
He was fortunate in obtaining a good and extensive run, and he devoted 
the whole of his time to improving his flocks, and encouraged his shepherds 
by rewards ; so that, in about four years, his original number of sheep had 
increased from 2500 (which cost him £700) to 7000 ; and the breed and 
wool were also so much improved, that he could obtain £1 per head for 2000 
fat sheep, and 15s. per head for the other 5000, and this at a time when 
the general price of sheep was from 10s. to 16s. This alone increased his 
original capital, invested in sheep, from £700 to £5700. The profits from 
the wool paid the whole of his expenses and wages for his men.” 


442 


THE CAXTONS : 


“ The Wakefield ” 1 had diminished the supply of labour, and 
raised the price of land. When the change came (like most 
of those with large allotments and surplus capital), it greatly 
increased the value of my own property, though at the cost 
of a terrible blow on the general interests of the colony. I was 
lucky, too, in the additional venture of a cattle-station, and in 
the breed of horses and herds, which, in the five years devoted 
to that branch establishment, trebled the sum invested therein, 
exclusive of the advantageous sale of the station . 2 I was lucky, 
also, as I have stated, in the purchase and resale of lands, at 
Uncle Jack’s recommendation. And, lastly, I left in time, and 
escaped a very disastrous crisis in colonial affairs, which I take 
the liberty of attributing entirely to the mischievous crotchets 
of theorists at home, who want to set all clocks by Greenwich 
time, forgetting that it is morning in one part of the world at 
the time they are tolling the curfew in the other. 


CHAPTER II 

T ONDON once more ! How strange, lone, and savage I feel 
in the streets ! I am ashamed to have so much health and 
strength, when I look at these slim forms, stooping backs, and 
pale faces. I pick my way through the crowd with the merciful 
timidity of a good-natured giant. I am afraid of jostling against 

1 I felt sure from the first, that the system called “The Wakefield” 
could never fairly represent the ideas of Mr. Wakefield himself, whose 
singular breadth of understanding, and various knowledge of mankind, 
belied the notion that fathered on him the clumsy execution of a theory 
wholly inapplicable to a social state like Australia. I am glad to see that 
he has vindicated himself from the discreditable paternity. But I grieve 
to find that he still clings to one cardinal error of the system, in the dis- 
couragement of small holdings, and^that he evades, more ingeniously than 
ingenuously, the important question — “ What should be the minimum price 
of land ? ” 

2 “The profits of cattle-farming are smaller than those of the sheep- 
owner (if the latter have good luck, for much depends upon that), but 
cattle-farming is much more safe as a speculation, and less care, know- 
ledge, and management are required. £2000, laid out on 700 head qf 
cattle, if good runs be procured, might increase the capital in five years 
from £2000 to £6000, besides enabling the owner to maintain himself, 
pay wages, <kc.” — MS. letter from G. B. Wilkinson. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


443 


a man, for fear the collision should kill him. I get out of the 
way of a thread-paper clerk, and ’tis a wonder I am not run 
over by the omnibuses ; — I feel as if I could run over them ! I 
perceive too, that there is something outlandish, peregrinate, 
and lawless about me. Beau Brummell would certainly have 
denied me all pretension to the simple air of a gentleman, for 
every third passenger turns back to look at me. I retreat to 
my hotel — send for bootmaker, hatter, tailor, and haircutter. 
I humanise myself from head to foot. Even Ulysses is obliged 
to have recourse to the arts of Minerva, and, to speak unmeta- 
phorically, “ smarten himself up,” before the faithful Penelope 
condescends to acknowledge him. 

The artificers promise all despatch. Meanwhile, I hasten to 
remake acquaintance with my mother country over files of the 
Times, Post, Chronicle, and Herald. Nothing comes amiss to me, 
but articles on Australia ; from those I turn aside with the true 
pshaw-supercilious of your practical man. 

No more are leaders filled with praise and blame of Trevanion. 
“ Percy’s spur is cold.” Lord Ulverstone figures only in the 
Court Circular, or “Fashionable Movements .” Lord Ulverstone 
entertains a royal duke at dinner, or dines in turn with a royal 
duke, or has come to town, or gone out of it. At most (faint 
Platonic reminiscence of the former life), Lord Ulverstone says 
in the House of Lords a few words on some question, not a 
party one ; and on which (though affecting perhaps the interests 
of some few thousands, or millions, as the case may be) men 
speak without “ hears,” and are inaudible in the gallery : or 
Lord Ulverstone takes the chair at an agricultural meeting, or 
returns thanks when his health is drunk at a dinner at Guildhall. 
But the daughter rises as the father sets, though over a very 
different kind of world. 

“ First ball of the season at Castleton House!” Long de- 
scription of the rooms and the company ; above all, of the 
hostess. Lines on the Marchioness of Castleton’s picture in the 
“Book of Beauty,” by the Hon.^Fitzroy Fiddledum, beginning 
with “ Art thou an angel from,” &c. — a paragraph that pleased 
me more, on “ Lady Castleton’s Infant School at Raby Park ; ” 
then again — “ Lady Castleton, the new patroness at Almack’s 
a criticism more rapturous than ever gladdened living poet, on 
Lady Castleton’s superb diamond stomacher, just reset by Storr 
and Mortimer ; Westmacott’s bust of Lady Castleton ; Land- 
seer’s picture of Lady Castleton and her children, in the 
costume of the olden time. Not a month in that long file of 


444 THE CAXTONS : 

the Morning Post but what Lady Castleton shone forth from the 
rest of womankind — 

“ Velut inter ignes 

Luna minores.” 

The blood mounted to my cheek. Was it to this splendid con- 
stellation in the patrician heaven that my obscure, portionless 
youth had dared to lift its presumptuous eyes ? But what is this ? 
“ Indian Intelligence — Skilful retreat of the Sepoys under 
Captain de Caxton ! ” A captain already — what is the date 
of the newspaper? — three months ago. The leading article 
quotes the name with high praise. Is there no leaven of envy 
amidst the joy at my heart ? How obscure has been my career 
— how laurelless my poor battle with adverse fortune ! Fie, 
Pisistratus ! I am ashamed of thee. Has this accursed Old 
World, with its feverish rivalries, diseased thee already ? Get 
thee home, quick, to the arms of thy mother, the embrace of 
thy father — hear Roland’s low blessing, that thou hast helped 
to minister to the very fame of that son. If thou wilt have 
ambition, take it, not soiled and foul with the mire of London. 
Let it spring fresh and hardy in the calm air of wisdom; and 
fed, as with dews, by the loving charities of Home. 


CHAPTER III 

TT was at sunset that I stole through the ruined courtyard, 
having left my chaise at the foot of the hill below. Though 
they whom I came to seek knew that I had arrived in England, 
they did not, from my letter, expect me till the next day. I 
had stolen a march upon them ; and now, in spite of all the 
impatience which had urged me thither, I was afraid to enter — 
afraid to see the change more than ten years had made in those 
forms, for which, in my memory, Time had stood still. And 
Roland had, even when we parted, grown old before his time. 
Then my father was in the meridian of life, now he had ap- 
proached to the decline. And my mother, whom I remembered 
so fair, as if the freshness of her own heart had preserved the 
soft bloom to the cheek — I could not bear to think that she 
was no longer young. Blanche, too, whom I had left a child — 
Blanche, my constant correspondent during those long years of 
exile, in letters crossed and recrossed, with all the small details 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


445 


that make the eloquence of letter-writing, so that in those 
epistles I had seen her mind gradually grow up in harmony 
with the very characters ; at first vague and infantine — then 
somewhat stiff with the first graces of running hand, then dash- 
ing off, free and facile ; and, for the last year before I left, so 
formed, yet so airy — so regular, yet so unconscious of effort — 
though, in truth, as the caligraphy had become thus matured, I 
had been half vexed and half pleased to perceive a certain 
reserve] creeping over the style — wishes for my return less ex- 
pressed from herself than as messages from others ; words of 
the old childlike familiarity repressed ; and “ Dearest Sisty ” 
abandoned for the cold form of “ Dear Cousin.” Those letters, 
coming to me in a spot where maiden and love had been as 
myths of the by-gone, phantasms and eidola, only vouchsafed 
to the visions of fancy, had, by little and little, crept into secret 
corners of my heart ; and out of the wrecks of a former 
romance, solitude and reverie had gone far to build up the 
fairy domes of a romance yet to come. My mother’s letters 
had never omitted to make mention of Blanche — of her fore- 
thought and tender activity, of her warm heart and sweet 
temper — and, in many a little home picture, presented her 
image where I would fain have placed it, not “ crystal seeing,” 
but joining my mother in charitable visits to the village, in- 
structing the young, and tending on the old, or teaching her- 
self to illuminate, from an old missal in my father’s collection, 
that she might surprise my uncle with a new genealogical table, 
with all shields and quarterings, blazoned or sable , and argent; 
or flitting round my father where he sat, and watching when 
he looked round for some book he was too lazy to rise for. 
Blanche had made a new catalogue, and got it by heart, and 
knew at once from what corner of the Heraclea to summon the 
ghost. On all these little traits had my mother been eulogisti- 
cally minute ; but somehow or other she had never said, at 
least for the last two years, whether Blanche was pretty or 
plain. That w r as a sad omission. I had longed just to ask 
that simple question, or to imply it delicately and diplomati- 
cally ; but I know not why, I never dared — for Blanche would 
have been sure to have read the letter, and what business was 
it of mine ? And if she was ugly, what question more awkward 
both to put and to answer ? Now, in childhood, Blanche had 
just one of those faces that might become very lovely in youth, 
and would yet quite justify the suspicion that it might become 
gryphonesque, witch-like, and grim. Yes, Blanche, it is per- 


446 


THE CAXTONS: 


fectly true ! If those large, serious black eyes took a fierce 
light, instead of a tender — if that nose, which seemed then 
undecided whether to be straight or to be aquiline, arched off 
in the latter direction, and assumed the martial, Roman and 
imperative character of Roland’s manly proboscis — if that face, 
in childhood too thin, left the blushes of youth to take refuge 
on two salient peaks by the temples (Cumberland air, too, is 
famous for the growth of the cheekbone !) — if all that should 
happen, and it very well might, then, O Blanche, I wish thou 
hadst never written me those letters ; and I might have done 
wiser things than steel my heart so obdurately to pretty Ellen 
Bolding’s blue eyes and silk shoes. Now, combining together 
all these doubts and apprehensions, wonder not, O reader, why 
I stole so stealthily through the ruined courtyard, crept round 
to the other side of the tower, gazed wistfully on the sun setting 
slant, on the high casements of the hall (too high, alas! to 
look within) and shrunk yet to enter ; — doing battle, as it were, 
with my heart. 

Steps ! — one's sense of hearing grows so quick in the Bush- 
land ! — steps, though as light as ever brushed the dew from the 
harebell ! I crept under the shadow of the huge buttress 
mantled with ivy. A form comes from the little door at an 
angle in the ruins — a woman’s form. Is it my mother’s ? It is 
too tall, and the step is more bounding. It winds round the 
building, it turns to look back, and a sweet voice — a voice 
strange, yet familiar, calls, tender but chiding, to a truant that 
Jags behind. Poor Juba ! he is trailing his long ears on the 
ground ; he is evidently much disturbed in his mind ; now he 
stands still, his nose in the air. Poor Juba! I left thee so 
slim and so nimble — 

“ Thy form that was fashioned as light as a fay’s, 

Has assumed a proportion more round ; ” 

years have sobered thee strangely, and made thee obese and 
Primmins-like. — They have taken too good care of thy creature 
comforts, O sensual Mauritanian ! still, in that mystic intelli- 
gence we call instinct, thou art chasing something that years 
have not swept from thy memory. Thou art deaf to thy lady’s 
voice, however tender and chiding. That’s right, come near — 
nearer — my cousin Blanche ; let me have a fair look at thee. 
Plague take the dog ! he flies off from her : he has found the 
scent, he is making up to the buttress ! Now — pounce — he is 
caught ! — whining ungallant discontent. Shall I not yet see 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


447 


the face ! it is buried in Juba’s black curls. Kisses too ! Wicked 
Blanche ! to waste on a dumb animal what, I heartily hope, 
many a good Christian would be exceedingly glad of! Juba 
struggles in vain, and is borne off ! I don’t think that those 
eyes can have taken the fierce turn, and Roland’s eagle nose 
can never go with that voice, which has the coo of the dove. 

I leave my hiding-place, and steal after the Voice, and its 
ow r ner. Where can she be going? Not far. She springs up 
the hill whereon the lords of the castle once administered 
justice— that hill which commands the land far and wide, and 
from w r hieh can be last caught the glimpse of the westering 
sun. How gracefully still is that attitude of wistful repose ! 
Into what delicate curves do form and drapery harmoniously 
flow ! How softly distinct stands the lithe image against the 
purple hues of the sky ! Then again comes the sweet voice, 
gay and carolling as a bird’s— now in snatches of song, now in 
playful appeals to that dull, four-footed friend. She is telling 
him something that must make the black ears stand on end, for 
I just catch the words, “ He is coming,” and “home.” 

I cannot see the sun set where I lurk in my ambush, amidst 
the brake and the ruins ; but I feel that the orb has passed 
from the landscape, in the fresher air of the twilight, in the 
deeper silence of eve. Lo ! Hesper comes forth ; at his signal, 
star after star, come the hosts — 

“ Ch’eran con lui, quando l’amor divino, 

Mosse da primii quelle cose belle ! ” 

And the sweet voice is hushed. 

Then slowly the watcher descends the hill on the opposite 
side — the form escapes from my view\ What charm has gone 
from the twilight ? See, again, where the step steals through 
the ruins and along the desolate court. Ah ! deep and true 
heart, do I divine the remembrance that leads thee ? I pass 
through the wicket, down the dell, skirt the laurels, and behold 
the face, looking up to the stars — the face which had nestled to 
my breast in the sorrow of parting years, long years ago : on the 
grave where we had sat, I the boy, thou the infant — there, O 
Blanche ! is thy fair face — (fairer than the fondest dream that 
had gladdened my exile) — vouchsafed to my gaze ! 

“ Blanche, my cousin ! — again, again — soul with soul, amidst 
the dead ! Look up, Blanche ; it is I.” 


448 


THE CAXTONS : 


CHAPTER IV 

/'TJ-O in first and prepare them, dear Blanche ; I will wait by 
^ the door. Leave it ajar, that I may see them.” 

Roland is leaning against the wall — old armour suspended 
over the grey head of the soldier. It is but a glance that I 
give to the dark cheek and high brow ; no change there for the 
worse — no new sign of decay. Rather, if anything, Roland 
seems younger than when I left. Calm is the brow — no shame 
on it now, Roland; and the lips, once so compressed, smile 
with ease — no struggle now, Roland, “not to complain.” A 
glance shows me all this. 

“ Papae ! ” says my father, and I hear the fall of a book, “ I 
can’t read a line. He is coming to-morrow ! — to-morrow ! If 
we lived to the age of Methuselah, Kitty, we could never 
reconcile philosophy and man ; that is, if the poor man’s to be 
plagued with a good, affectionate son ! ” 

And my father gets up and walks to and fro. One minute 
more, father — one minute more — and I am on thy breast ! 
Time, too, has dealt gently with thee, as he doth with those 
for whom the wild passions and keen cares of the world never 
sharpen his scythe. The broad front looks more broad, for the 
locks are more scanty and thin ; but still not a furrow. 

Whence comes that short sigh ! 

“ What is really the time, Blanche ? Did you look at the 
turret clock ? Well, just go and look again.” 

“ Kitty,” quoth my father, “ you have not only asked what 
time it is thrice within the last ten minutes, but you have got 
my watch, and Roland’s great chronometer, and the Dutch 
clock out of the kitchen, all before you, and they all concur in 
the same tale — to-day is not to-morrow.” 

“They are all wrong, I know,” said my mother, with mild 
firmness ; “and they’ve never gone right since he left.” 

Now out comes a letter —for I hear the rustle — and then a 
step glides towards the lamp ; and the dear, gentle, womanly 
face — fair still, fair ever for me, fair as when it bent over my 
pillow, in childhood’s first sickness, or when we threw flowers 
at each other on the lawn, at sunny noon ! And now Blanche 
is whispering ; and now the flutter, the start, the cry — “ It is 
true ! it is true ! Your arms, mother. Close, close round my 
neck, as in the old time. Father ! Roland, too ! Oh, joy ! joy ! 
joy ! home again — home till death ! ” 


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449 


CHAPTER V 

Ji^ROM a dream of the Bushland, howling dingoes , 1 and the 

war-whoop of the wild men, I wake and see the sun shining 
in through the jasmine that Blanche herself has had trained 
round the window — old school-books, neatly ranged round the 
wall — fishing-rods, cricket-bats, foils, and the old-fashioned gun 
— and my mother seated by the bedside — and Juba whining 
and scratching to get up. Had I taken thy murmured blessing, 
my mother, for the whoop of the blacks, and Juba’s low whine 
for the howl of the dingoes ? 

Then what days of calm exquisite delight ! — the interchange 
of heart with heart : what walks with Roland, and tales of him 
once our shame, now our pride ; and the art with which the old 
man would lead those walks round by the village, that some 
favourite gossips might stop and ask, “ What news of his brave 
young honour ? ” 

I strive to engage my uncle in my projects for the repair of 
the ruins — for the culture of those wide bogs and moorlands : 
why is it that he turns away and looks down embarrassed ? Ah, 
I guess ! his true heir now is restored to him. He cannot 
consent that I should invest this dross, for which (the Great 
Book once published) I have no other use, in the house and the 
lands that will pass to his son. Neither would he suffer me so 
to invest even his son’s fortune, the bulk of which I still hold in 
trust for that son. True, in his career, my cousin may require 
to have his money always forthcoming. But /, who have no 
career, — pooh ! these scruples will rob me of half the pleasure 
my years of toil were to purchase. I must contrive it somehow 
or other ; what if he would let me house and moorland on a 
long improving lease ? Then, for the rest, there is a pretty 
little property to be sold close by, on which I can retire, when 
my cousin, as heir of the family, comes, perhaps with a wife, to 
reside at the Tower. I must consider of all this, and talk it 
over with Bolt, when my mind is at leisure from happiness to 
turn to such matters ; meanwhile I fall back on my favourite 
proverb, — “ Where there’s a will there’s a way.” 

What smiles and tears, and laughter and careless prattle with 
my mother, and roundabout questions from her, to know if I 
had never lost my heart in the Bush ? and evasive answers from 

1 Dingoes — the name given by Australian natives to the wild dogs. 

2 F 


450 


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me, to punish her for not letting out that Blanche was so 
charming. “I fancied Blanche had grown the image of her 
father, who has a fine martial head certainly, but not seen to 
advantage in petticoats ! How could you be so silent with a 
theme so attractive ? ” 

“ Blanche made me promise.” 

Why ? I wonder. Therewith I fell musing. 

What quiet delicious hours are spent with my father in his 
study, or by the pond, where he still feeds the carps, that have 
grown into Cyprinidian leviathans. The duck, alas ! has departed 
this life — the only victim that the Grim King has carried off ; 
so I mourn, but am resigned to that lenient composition of the 
great tribute to Nature. I am sorry to say the Great Book has 
advanced but slowly — by no means yet fit for publication, for it 
is resolved that it shall not come out as first proposed, a part at a 
time, but totus, teres , atque rotundus. The matter has spread beyond 
its original compass ; no less than five volumes — and those of 
the amplest — will contain the History of Human Error. How- 
ever, we are far in the fourth, and one must not hurry Minerva. 

My father is enchanted with Uncle Jack’s "noble conduct,” 
as he calls it ; but he scolds me for taking the money, and 
doubts as to the propriety of returning it. In these matters 
my father is quite as Quixotical as Roland. I am forced to call 
in my mother as umpire between us, and she settles the matter 
at once by an appeal to feeling. " Ah, Austin ! do you not 
humble me, if you are too proud to accept what is due to you 
from my brother ? ” 

“ Velit, nolit, quod arnica answered my father, taking off and 
rubbing his spectacles — “ which means, Kitty, that when a man’s 
married he has no will of his own. To think,” added Mr. 
Caxton, musingly, “ that in this world one cannot be sure of the 
simplest mathematical definition ! You see, Pisistratus, that the 
angles of a triangle so decidedly scalene as your Uncle Jack’s, may 
be equal to the angles of a right-angled triangle after all ! ” 1 

The long privation of books has quite restored all my appetite 

1 Not having again to advert to Uncle Jack, I may be pardoned for in- 
forming the reader, by way of annotation, that he continues to prosper 
surprisingly in Australia, though the Tibbets’ Wheal stands still for want 
of workmen. Despite of a few ups and downs, I have had no fear of his 
success until this year (1849), when I tremble to think what effect the 
discovery of the gold mines in California may have on his lively imagi- 
nation. If thou escapest that snare, Uncle Jack, res age tutus eris , — thou 
art safe for life. 


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451 


for them. How much I have to pick up ! — what a compendious 
scheme of reading I and my father chalk out ! I see enough to 
fill up all the leisure of life. But, somehow or other, Greek and 
Latin stand still : nothing charms me like Italian. Blanche and 
I are reading Metastasio, to the great indignation of my father, 
who calls it “ rubbish,” and wants to substitute Dante. I have 
no associations at present with the souls 

“ Che son contenti 
Nel fuoco ; ” 

I am already one of the “ beate gente.” Yet, in spite of Metas- 
tasio, Blanche and I are not so intimate as cousins ought to be. 
If we are by accident alone, I become as silent as a Turk, — as 
formal as Sir Charles Grandison. I caught myself calling her 
Miss Blanche the other day. 

I must not forget thee, honest Squills ! — nor thy delight at 
my health and success ; nor thy exclamation of pride (one hand 
on my pulse and the other griping hard the “ball” of my arm). 
“ It all comes of my citrate of iron ; nothing like it for children; 
it has an effect on the cerebral developments of hope and com- 
bativeness.” Nor can I wholly omit mention of poor Mrs. 
Primmins, who still calls me “ Master Sisty,” and is breaking 
her heart that I will not wear the new flannel waistcoats she 
had such pleasure in making — “Young gentlemen just growing 
up are so apt to go off in a galloping ’sumption ! ” “ She knew 

just such another as Master Sisty, when she lived at Torquay, 
who wasted away, and went out like a snuff, all because he would 
not wear flannel waistcoats.” Therewith my mother looks grave, 
and says, “ One can’t take too much precaution.” 

Suddenly the whole neighbourhood is thrown into commotion. 
Trevanion — I beg his pardon, Lord Ulverstone — is coming to 
settle for good at Compton. Fifty hands are employed daily in 
putting the ground into hasty order. Fourgons, and waggons, 
and vans have disgorged all the necessaries a great man requires, 
where he means to eat, drink, and sleep ; books, wines, pictures, 
furniture. I recognise my old patron still. He is in earnest, 
whatever he does. I meet my friend, his steward, who tells me 
that Lord Ulverstone finds his favourite seat, near London, too 
exposed to interruption ; and moreover that, as he has there 
completed all improvements that wealth and energy can effect, 
he has less occupation for agricultural pursuits, to which he has 
grown more and more partial, than on the wide and princely 
domain which has hitherto wanted the master’s eye. “ He is a 


452 


THE CAXTONS : 


bra’ farmer, I know/’ quoth the steward, “ so far as the theory 
goes ; but I don’t think we in the north want great lords to teach 
us how to follow the pleugli.” The steward’s sense of dignity 
is hurt ; but he is an honest fellow, and really glad to see the 
family come to settle in the old place. 

They have arrived, and with them the Castletons, and a whole 
posse comitatus of guests. The county paper is full of fine names. 

“ What on earth did Lord Ulverstone mean by pretending to 
get out of the way of troublesome visitors ? ” 

“ My dear Pisistratus,” answered my father to that exclama- 
tion, “ it is not the visitors who come, but the visitors who stay 
away, that most trouble the repose of a retired minister. In all 
the procession, he sees but the images of Brutus and Cassius — 
that are not there ! And depend on it also, a retirement so near 
London did not make noise enough. You see, a retiring states- 
man is like that fine carp — the farther he leaps from the water, 
the greater splash he makes in falling into the weeds ! But,” 
added Mr. Caxton, in a repentant tone, “this jesting does not 
become us ; and, if I indulged it, it is only because I am heartily 
glad that Trevanion is likely now to find out his true vocation. 
And as soon as the fine people he brings with him have left him 
alone in his library, I trust he will settle to that vocation, and 
be happier than he has been yet.” 

“ And that vocation, sir, is ” 

“ Metaphysics ! ” said my father. “ He will be quite at home 
in puzzling over Berkeley, and considering whether the Speaker’s 
chair, and the official red boxes, were really things whose ideas 
of figure, extension, and hardness were all in the mind. It will 
be a great consolation to him to agree with Berkeley, and to 
find that he has only been baffled by immaterial phantasma ! ” 

My father was quite right. The repining, subtle, truth- 
weighing Trevanion, plagued by his conscience into seeing all 
sides of a question (for the least question has more than two 
sides, and is hexagonal at least), was much more fitted to dis- 
cover the origin of ideas than to convince Cabinets and Nations 
that two and two make four — a proposition on which he himself 
would have agreed with Abraham Tucker, where that most in- 
genious and suggestive of all English metaphysicians observes, 
“Well, persuaded as I am that two and two make four, if I were 
to meet with a person of credit, candour, and understanding, 
who should sincerely call it in question, I would give him a 
hearing ; for I am not more certain of that than of the whole 
being greater than a part. And yet I could myself suggest 


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453 


some considerations that might seem to controvert this point ” 1 I can 
so well imagine Trevanion listening to “some person of credit, 
candour, and understanding,” in disproof of that vulgar proposi- 
tion that twice two make four ! But the news of this arrival, 
including that of Lady Castleton, disturbed me greatly, and I 
took to long wanderings alone. In one of these rambles, they 
all called at the Tower — Lord and Lady Ulverstone, the Castle- 
tons, and their children. I escaped the visit ; and on my return 
home, there was a certain delicacy respecting old associations 
that restrained much talk, before me, on so momentous an event. 
Roland, like me, had kept out of the way. Blanche, poor child, 
ignorant of the antecedents, was the most communicative. And 
the especial theme she selected — was the grace and beauty of 
Lady Castleton ! 

A pressing invitation to spend some days at the castle had 
been cordially given to all. It was accepted only by myself : I 
wrote word that I would come. 

Yes : I longed to prove the strength of my own self-conquest, 
and accurately test the nature of the feelings that had disturbed 
me. That any sentiment which could be called love remained 
for Lady Castleton, the wife of another, and that other a man 
with so many claims on my affection as her lord, I held as a 
moral impossibility. But, with all those lively impressions of 
early youth still engraved on my heart — impressions of the 
image of Fanny Trevanion as the fairest and brightest of human 
beings — could I feel free to love again ? Could I seek to woo, 
and rivet to myself for ever, the entire and virgin affections of 
another, while there was a possibility that I might compare and 
regret ? No ; either I must feel that, if Fanny were again 
single — could be mine without obstacle, human or divine — she 
had ceased to be the one I would single out of the world ; or, 
though regarding love as the dead, I would be faithful to its 
memory and its ashes. My mother sighed, and looked fluttered 
and uneasy all the morning of the day on which I was to repair 
to Compton. She even seemed cross, for about the third time 
in her life, and paid no compliment to Mr. Stultz, when my 
shooting-jacket was exchanged for a black frock, which that 
artist had pronounced to be “splendid” ; neither did she honour 
me with any of those little attentions to the contents of my 
portmanteau, and the perfect “ getting up ” of my white waist- 

1 Light of Nature — chapter on Judgment. — See the very ingenious illustra- 
tion of doubt, “ whether the part is always greater than the whole ” — 
taken from time, or rather eternity. 


454 - 


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coats and cravats, which made her natural instincts on such 
memorable occasions. There was also a sort of querulous, pity- 
ing tenderness in her tone, when she spoke to Blanche, which 
was quite pathetic ; though, fortunately, its cause remained dark 
and impenetrable to the innocent comprehension of one who 
could not see where the past filled the urns of the future at the 
fountain of life. My father understood me better, shook me by 
the hand as I got into the chaise, and muttered, out of Seneca — 

“Non tanquam transfuga, sed tanquam explorator.” 

“Not to desert, but examine.” 

Quite right. 


CHAPTER VI 


AGREEABLY to the usual custom in great houses, as soon 
as I arrived at Compton, I was conducted to my room, to 
adjust my toilet, or compose my spirits by solitude : — it wanted 
an hour to dinner. I had not, however, been thus left ten 
minutes, before the door opened, and Trevanion himself (as I 
would fain still call him) stood before me. Most cordial were 
his greeting and welcome ; and, seating himself by my side, he 
continued to converse in his peculiar way — bluntly eloquent, 
and carelessly learned — till the half-hour bell rang. He talked 
on Australia, the Wakefield system — cattle — books, his trouble 
in arranging his library — his schemes for improving his property, 
and embellishing his grounds — his delight to find my father 
look so well — his determination to see a great deal of him, 
whether his old college friend would or not. He talked, in 
short, of everything except politics, and his own past career — 
showing only his soreness in that silence. But (independently 
of the mere work of time) he looked yet more worn and jaded 
in his leisure than he had done in the full tide of business ; and 
his former abrupt quickness of manner now seemed to partake 
of feverish excitement. I hoped that my father would see much 
of him, for I felt that the weary mind wanted soothing. 

Just as the second bell rang, I entered the drawing-room. 
There were at least twenty guests present — each guest, no 
doubt, some planet of fashion or fame, with satellites of its own. 
But I saw only two forms distinctly ; first. Lord Castleton, 
conspicuous with star and garter — somewhat ampler and portlier 
in proportions, and with a frank dash of grey in the silky w T aves 
of his hair ; but still as pre-eminent as ever for that beauty — 


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455 


the charm of which depends less than any other upon youth — 
arising, as it does, from a felicitous combination of bearing and 
manner, and that exquisite suavity of expression which steals 
into the heart, and pleases so much that it becomes a satisfac- 
tion to admire ! Of Lord Castleton, indeed, it might be said, 
as of Alcibiades, “that he was beautiful at every age.” I felt 
my breath come thick, and a mist passed before my eyes, as 
Lord Castleton led me through the crowd, and the radiant 
vision of Fanny Trevanion, how altered — and how dazzling ! — 
burst upon me. 

I felt the light touch of that hand of snow ; but no guilty 
thrill shot through my veins. I heard the voice, musical as ever 
— lower than it was once, and more subdued in its key, but 
steadfast anduntremulous — it was no longer the voice that made 
“ my soul plant itself in the ears.” 1 The event was over, and I 
knew that the dream had fled from the waking world for ever. 

“ Another old friend ! ” as Lady Ulverstone came forth from 
a little group of children, leading one fine boy of nine years 
old, while one, two or three years younger, clung to her gown. 
“ Another old friend ! — and,” added Lady Ulverstone, after the 
first kind greetings, “ two new ones when the old are gone.” 
The slight melancholy left the voice, as after presenting to me 
the little viscount, she drew forward the more bashful Lord 
Albert, who indeed had something of his grandsire’s and name- 
sake’s look of refined intelligence in his brow and eyes. 

The watchful tact of Lord Castleton was quick in terminating 
whatever embarrassment might belong to these introductions, 
as, leaning lightly on my arm, he drew me forward, and pre- 
sented me to the guests more immediately in our neighbour- 
hood, who seemed by their earnest cordiality to have been 
already prepared for the introduction. 

Dinner was now announced, and I welcomed that sense of 
relief and segregation with which one settles into one’s own 
“ particular ” chair at your large miscellaneous entertainment. 

I stayed three days at that house. How truly had Trevanion 
said that Fanny would make “an excellent great lady.” What 
perfect harmony between her manners and her position ; just 
retaining enough of the girl’s seductive gaiety and bewitching 
desire to please, to soften the new dignity of bearing she had 
unconsciously assumed — less, after all, as great lady, than as 
wife and mother : with a fine breeding, perhaps a little languid 
and artificial, as compared with her lord’s — which sprang, fresh 
1 Sir Philip Sidney. 


456 


THE CAXTONS : 


and healthful, wholly from nature — but still so void of all the 
chill of condescension, or the subtle impertinence that belongs 
to that order of the inferior noblesse , which boasts the name of 
“exclusives”; with what grace, void of prudery, she took the 
adulation of the flatterers, turning from them to her children, 
or escaping lightly to Lord Castleton, with an ease that drew 
round her at once the protection of hearth and home. 

And certainly Lady Castleton was more incontestably beau- 
tiful than Fanny Trevanion had been. 

All this I acknowledged, not with a sigh and a pang, but 
with a pure feeling of pride and delight. I might have loved 
madly and presumptuously, as boys will do; but I had loved 
worthily — the love left no blush on my manhood ; and Fanny’s 
very happiness was my perfect and total cure of every wound 
in my heart, not quite scarred over before. Had she been 
discontented, sorrowful, without joy in the ties she had formed, 
there might have been more danger that I should brood over 
the past, and regret the loss of its idol. Here there was none. 
And the very improvement in her beauty had so altered its 
character — so altered — that Fanny Trevanion and Lady Castle- 
ton seemed two persons. And, thus observing and listening 
to her, I could now dispassionately perceive such differences in 
our nature as seemed to justify Trevanion’s assertion, which 
once struck me as so monstrous, “ that we should not have 
been happy had fate permitted our union.” Pure-hearted and 
simple though she remained in the artificial world, still that 
world was her element ; its interests occupied her ; its talk, 
though just chastened from scandal, flowed from her lips. To 
borrow the words of a man who was himself a courtier, and one 
so distinguished that he could afford to sneer at Chesterfield , 1 
“ She had the routine of that style of conversation which is a 
sort of gold leaf, that is a great embellishment where it is 
joined to anything else.” I will not add, “but makes a very 
poor figure by itself” — for that Lady Castleton’s conversation 
certainly did not do — perhaps, indeed, because it was not “ by 
itself” — and the gold leaf was all the better for being thin, 
since it could not cover even the surface of the sweet and 
amiable nature over which it was spread. Still this was not 
the mind in which now, in maturer experience, I would seek 
to find sympathy with manly action, or companionship in the 
charms of intellectual leisure. 

There was about this same beautiful favourite of nature 
1 Lord Hervey’s “ Memoirs of George II.” 


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457 


and fortune a certain helplessness, which had even its grace in 
that high station, and which, perhaps, tended to ensure her 
domestic peace, for it served to attach her to those who had 
won influence over her, and was happily accompanied by a 
most affectionate disposition. But still, if less favoured by 
circumstances, less sheltered from every wind that could visit 
her too roughly — if, as the wife of a man of inferior rank, she 
had failed of that high seat and silken canopy reserved for 
the spoiled darlings of fortune — that helplessness might have 
become querulous. I thought of poor Ellen Bolding and her 
silken shoes. Fanny Trevanion seemed to have come into the 
world with silk shoes — not to walk where there was a stone or 
a brier ! I heard something, in the gossip of those around, 
that confirmed this view of Lady Castleton’s character, while 
it deepened my admiration of her lord, and showed me how 
wise had been her choice, and how resolutely he had prepared 
himself to vindicate his own. One evening, as I was sitting, a 
little apart from the rest, with two men of the London world, 
to whose talk — for it ran upon the on-dits and anecdotes of a 
region long strange to me — I was a silent but amused listener ; 
one of the two said — “Well, I don’t know anywhere a more 
excellent creature than Lady Castleton ; so fond of her children 
— and her tone to Castleton so exactly what it ought to be — so 
affectionate, and yet, as it were, respectful. And the more 
credit to her, if, as they say, she was not in love with him 
when she married (to be sure, handsome as he is, he is twice 
her age) ! And no woman could have been more flattered and 
courted by Lotharios and lady-killers than Lady Castleton has 
been. I confess, to my shame, that Castleton’s luck puzzles 
me, for it is rather an exception to my general experience.” 

“ My dear ,” said the other, who was one of those wise 

men of pleasure, who occasionally startle us into wondering how 
they come to be so clever, and yet rest contented with mere 
drawing-room celebrity- — men who seem always idle, yet appear to 
have read everything ; always indifferent to what passes before 
them, yet who know the character and divine the secrets of 

everybody — “my dear ,” said the gentleman, “you would 

not be puzzled if you had studied Lord Castleton, instead of her 
ladyship. Of all the conquests ever made by Sedley Beaudesert 
— when the two fairest dames of the Faubourg are said to have 
fought for his smiles, in the Bois de Boulogne — no conquest ever 
cost him such pains, or so tasked his knowledge of women, as 
that of his wife after marriage ! He was not satisfied with her 


458 


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hand, he was resolved to have her whole heart, ‘ one entire and 
perfect chrysolite,’ and he has succeeded ! Never was husband 
so watchful and so little jealous — never one who confided so 
generously in all that was best in his wife, yet was so alert in 
protecting and guarding her, wherever she was weakest ! When 
in the second year of marriage, that dangerous German Prince 
Von Leibenfels attached himself so preseveringly to Lady Castle- 
ton, and the scandle-mongers pricked up their ears, in hopes of 
a victim, I watched Castleton with as much interest as if I had 
been looking over Deschapelles playing at chess. You never 
saw anything so masterly ; he pitted himself against his highness 
with the cool confidence, not of a blind spouse, but a fortunate 
rival. He surpassed him in the delicacy of his attentions, he 
outshone him by his careless magnificence. Leibenfels had the 
impertinence to send Lady Castleton a bouquet of some rare 
flowers just in fashion. Castleton, an hour before, had filled her 
whole balcony with the same costly exotics, as if they were too 
common for nosegays, and only just worthy to bloom for her a 
day. Young and really accomplished as Leibenfels is, Castleton 
eclipsed him by his grace, and fooled him with his wit; he laid 
little plots to turn his moustache and guitar into ridicule ; he 
seduced him into a hunt with the buckhounds (though Castleton 
himself had not hunted before, since he was thirty), and drew 
him, spluttering German oaths, out of the slough of a ditch; he 
made him the laughter of the clubs : he put him fairly out of 
fashion — and all with such suavity and politeness, and bland 
sense of superiority, that it was the finest piece of high comedy 
you ever beheld. The poor prince, who had been coxcomb 
enough to lay a bet with a Frenchman as to his success with 
the English in general, and Lady Castleton in particular, went 
away with a face as long as Don Quixote’s. If you had but 

seen him at S House, the night before he took leave of the 

island, and his comical grimace when Castleton offered him a 
pinch of the Beaudesert mixture ! No ! the fact is, that Castle- 
ton made it the object of his existence, the masterpiece of his 
art, to secure to himself a happy home, and the entire possession 
of his wife’s heart. The first two or three years, I fear, cost 
him more trouble than any other man ever took, with his own 
wife, at least ; but he may now rest in peace — Lady Castleton is 
won, and for ever.” 

As my gentleman ceased. Lord Castleton ’s noble head rose 
above the group standing round him ; and I saw Lady Castleton 
turn with a look of well-bred fatigue from a handsome young 


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459 


fop, who had affected to lower his voice while he spoke to her, 
and, encountering the eyes of her husband, the look changed 
at once into one of such sweet smiling affection, such frank, 
unmistakable wife-like pride, that it seemed a response to the 
assertion — “ Lady Castleton is won, and for ever/’ 

Yes, that story increased my admiration for Lord Castleton : it 
showed me with what forethought and earnest sense of responsi- 
bility he had undertaken the charge of a life, the guidance of a 
character yet undeveloped : it lastingly acquitted him of the 
levity that had been attributed to Sedley Beaudesert. But I 
felt more than ever contented that the task had devolved on 
one whose temper and experience had so fitted him to discharge 
it. That German prince made me tremble from sympathy with 
the husband, and in a sort of relative shudder for myself! Had 
that episode happened to me, I could never have drawn “ high 
comedy ” from it ! — I could never have so happily closed the 
fifth act with a pinch of the Beaudesert mixture ! No, no ; to 
my homely sense of man’s life and employment, there was 
nothing alluring in the prospect of watching over the golden 
tree in the garden, with a “ woe to the Argus, if Mercury once 
lull him to sleep ! ” Wife of mine shall need no watching, save 
in sickness and sorrow ! Thank Heaven that my way of life 
does not lead through the roseate thoroughfares, beset with 
German princes laying bets for my perdition, and fine gentlemen 
admiring the skill with which I play at chess for so terrible a 
stake ! To each rank and each temper, its own laws. I ac- 
knowledge that Fanny is an excellent marchioness, and Lord 
Castleton an incomparable marquis. But, Blanche ! if I can win 
thy true, simple heart, I trust I shall begin at the fifth act of 
high comedy, and say at the altar 

“ Once won, won for ever.” 


CHAPTER VII 

T RODE home on a horse my host lent me ; and Lord Castleton 
rode part of the way with me, accompanied by his two boys, 
who bestrode manfully their Shetland ponies, and cantered on 
before us. I paid some compliment to the spirit and intelligence 
of these children — a compliment they well deserved. 

“ Why, yes,” said the marquis, with a father’s becoming pride, 


460 


THE CAXTONS: 


“ I hope neither of them will shame his grandsire, Trevanion. 
Albert (though not quite the wonder poor Lady Ulverstone 
declares him to be) is rather too precocious ; and it is all I can 
do to prevent his being spoilt by flattery to his cleverness, which, 
I think, is much worse than even flattery to rank — a danger to 
which, despite Albert’s destined inheritance, the elder brother 
is more exposed. Eton soon takes out the conceit of the latter 

and more vulgar kind. I remember Lord (you know what 

an unpretending, good-natured fellow he is now) strutting into 
the playground, a raw boy, with his chin up in the air, and 
burly Dick Johnson (rather a tuft-hunter now, I’m afraid) 
coming up, and saying, f Well, sir, and who the deuce are 

you ? ’ ‘ Lord ,’ says the poor devil unconsciously, ‘ eldest 

son of the Marquis of — — — .* ‘ Oh, indeed ! ’ cries Johnson ; 

‘ then, there’s one kick for my lord, and two for the marquis ! ’ 
I am not fond of kicking, but I doubt if anything ever did 

more good than those three kicks ! But,” continued Lord 

Castleton, "when one flatters a boy for his cleverness, even 
Eton itself cannot kick the conceit out of him. Let him be 
last in the form, and the greatest dunce ever flogged, there are 
always people to say that your public schools don’t do for your 
great geniuses. And it is ten to one but what the father is 
plagued into taking the boy home, and giving him a private 
tutor, who fixes him into a prig for ever. A coxcomb in dress,” 
said the marquis smiling, "is a trifler it would ill become me 
to condemn, and I own that I would rather see a youth a fop 
than a sloven ; but a coxcomb in ideas — why, the younger he 
is, the more unnatural and disagreeable. Now, Albert, over 
that hedge, sir.” 

"That hedge, papa ? The pony will never do it.” 

" Then,” said Lord Castleton, taking off his hat with polite- 
ness, " I fear you will deprive us of the pleasure of your 
company.” 

The boy laughed, and made gallantly for the hedge, though 
I saw by his change of colour that it a little alarmed him. The 
pony could not clear the hedge ; but it was a pony of tact and 
resources, and it scrambled through like a cat, inflicting sundry 
rents and tears on a jacket of Raphael blue. 

Lord Castleton said, smiling, "You see, I teach them to get 
through a difficulty one way or the other. Between you and 
me,” he added seriously, " I perceive a very different world 
rising round the next generation from that in which I first went 
forth and took my pleasure. I shall rear my boys accordingly. 


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461 


Rich noblemen must nowadays be useful men ; and if they 
can’t leap over briers, they must scramble through them. Don’t 
you agree with me ? ” 

" Yes, heartily.” 

“ Marriage makes a man much wiser,” said the marquis, after 
a pause. " I smile now, to think how often I sighed at the 
thought of growing old. Now I reconcile myself to the grey 
hairs without dreams of a wig, and enjoy youth still — for,” 
pointing to his sons, " it is there ! ” 

"He has very nearly found out the secret of the saffron bag 
now,” said my father, pleased and rubbing his hands, when I 
repeated this talk with Lord Castleton. "But I fear poor 
Trevanion,” he added, with a compassionate change of counte- 
nance, " is still far away from the sense of Lord Bacon’s receipt. 
And his wife, you say, out of very love for him, keeps always 
drawing discord from the one jarring wire.” 

"You must talk to her, sir.” 

" I will,” said my father angrily ; "and scold her too — foolish 
woman ! I shall tell her Luthers advice to the Prince of 
Anhalt.” 

" What was that, sir ? ” 

" Only to throw a baby into the river Maldon, because it had 
sucked dry five wet-nurses besides the mother, and must there- 
fore be a changeling. Why, that ambition of hers would suck 
dry all the mother’s milk in the genus mammalian. And such 
a withered, rickety, malign little changeling too ! She shall 
fling it into the river, by all that is holy ! ” cried my father ; 
and, suiting the action to the word, away into the pond went 
the spectacles he had been rubbing indignantly for the last 
three minutes. " Papae ! ” faltered my father, aghast, while the 
Ceprinidae, mistaking the dip of the spectacles for an invitation 
to dinner, came scudding up to the bank. " It is all your 
fault,” said Mr. Caxton, recovering himself. " Get me the new 
tortoise-shell spectacles and a large slice of bread. You see 
that when fish are reduced to a pond they recognise a bene- 
factor, which they never do when rising at flies, or groping for 
worms, in the waste world of a river. Hem ! — a hint for the 
Ulverstones. Besides the bread and the spectacles, just look 
out and bring me the old black-letter copy of St. Anthony’s 
‘ Sermon to Fishes.’ ” 


462 


THE CAXTONS : 


CHAPTER VIII 

COME weeks now have passed since my return to the Tower: 
^ the Castletons are gone, and all Trevanion’s gay guests. 
And since these departures, visits between the two houses have 
been interchanged often, and the bonds of intimacy are growing 
close. Twice has my father held long conversations apart with 
Lady Ulverstone (my mother is not foolish enough to feel a 
pang now at such confidences), and the result has become 
apparent. Lady Ulverstone has ceased all talk against the 
world and the public — ceased to fret the galled pride of her 
husband with irritating sympathy. She has made herself the 
true partner of his present occupations, as she was of those in 
the past ; she takes interest in farming, and gardens, and flowers, 
and those philosophical peaches which come from trees academi- 
cal that Sir William Temple reared in his graceful retirement. 
She does more — she sits by her husband’s side in the library, 
reads the books he reads, or, if in Latin, coaxes him into con- 
struing them. Insensibly she leads him into studies farther 
and farther remote from Blue Books and Hansard ; and, taking 
my father’s hint, 

“ Allures to brighter worlds, and leads the way.” 

They are inseparable. Darby -and -Joan -like, you see them 
together in the library, the garden, or the homely little pony- 
phaeton, for which Lord Ulverstone has resigned the fast-trotting 
cob, once identified with the eager looks of the busy Trevanion. 
It is most touching, most beautiful ! And to think what a 
victory over herself the proud woman must have obtained ! — 
never a thought that seems to murmur, never a word to recall 
the ambitious man back from the philosophy into which his 
active mind flies for refuge. And with the effort, her brow has 
become so serene ! That careworn expression, which her fine 
features once wore, is fast vanishing. And what affects me 
most, is to think that this change (which is already settling into 
happiness) has been wrought by Austin’s counsels and appeals 
to her sense and affection. “ It is to you,” he said, “ that 
Trevanion must look for more than comfort — for cheerfulness 
and satisfaction. Your child is gone from you — the world ebbs 
away — you two should be all in all to each other. Be so.” 
Thus, after paths so devious, meet those who had parted in 
youth, now on the verge of age. There, in the same scenes 
where Austin and Ellinor had first formed acquaintance, he. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


463 


aiding ner to soothe the wounds inflicted by tbe ambition that 
had separated their lots, and both taking counsel to ensure the 
happiness of the rival she had preferred. 

After all this vexed public life of toil, and care, and ambition — 
to see Trevanion and Ellinor, drawing closer and closer to each 
other, knowing private life and its charms for the first time — 
verily, it would have been a theme for an elegiast like Tibullus. 

But all this while a younger love, with no blurred leaves to 
erase from the chronicle, has been keeping sweet account of 
the summer time. "Very near are two hearts that have no 
guile between them,” saith a proverb, traced back to Confucius. 
" Oh ye days of still sunshine, reflected back from ourselves— Oh 
ye haunts, endeared evermore by a look, tone, or smile, or rapt 
silence ; when more and more with each hour unfolded before 
me, that nature, so tenderly coy, so cheerful though serious, so 
attuned by simple cares to affection, yet so filled, from soft 
musings and solitude, with a poetry that gave grace to duties 
the homeliest — setting life’s trite things to music ! Here nature 
and fortune concurred alike ; equal in birth and pretensions — 
similar in tastes and in objects — loving the healthful activity of 
purpose, but content to find it around us — neither envying the 
wealthy nor vying with the great ; each framed by temper to 
look on the bright side of life, and find founts of delight, and 
green spots fresh with verdure, where eyes but accustomed to 
cities could see but the sands and the mirage : while afar (as 
man’s duty) I had gone through the travail that, in wrestling 
with fortune, gives pause to the heart to recover its losses, and 
know the value of love, in its graver sense of life’s earnest 
realities ; Heaven had reared, at the thresholds of home, the 
young tree that should cover the roof with its blossoms, and 
embalm with its fragrance the daily air of my being. 

It had been the joint prayer of those kind ones I left, that 
such might be my reward ; and each had contributed, in his or 
her several way, to fit that fair life for the ornament and joy of 
the one that now asked to guard and to cherish it. From 
Roland came that deep, earnest honour — a man’s in its strength, 
and a woman’s in its delicate sense of refinement. From 
Roland, that quick taste for all things noble in poetry, and 
lovely in nature — the eye that sparkled to read how Bayard 
stood alone at the bridge, and saved an army — or wept over the 
page that told how the dying Sydney put the bowl from his 
burning lips. Is that too masculine a spirit for some ? Let 
each please himself. Give me the woman who can echo all 


464 


THE CAXTONS: 


thoughts that are noblest in men ! And that eye, too — like 
Roland’s — could pause to note each finer mesh in the wonderful 
web-work of beauty. No landscape to her was the same 
yesterday and to-day — a deeper shade from the skies could 
change the face of the moors — the springing up of fresh wild 
flowers, the very song of some bird unheard before, lent variety 
to the broad rugged heath. Is that too simple a source of 
pleasure for some to prize ? Be it so to those who need the 
keen stimulants that cities afford. But, if we were to pass all 
our hours in those scenes, it was something to have the tastes 
which own no monotony in Nature. 

All this came from Roland ; and to this, with thoughtful 
wisdom, my father had added enough knowledge from books to 
make those tastes more attractive, and to lend to impulsive 
perception of beauty and goodness the culture that draws finer 
essence from beauty, and expands the Good into the Better by 
heightening the sight of the survey ; hers, knowledge enough to 
sympathise with intellectual pursuits, not enough to dispute on 
man’s province — Opinion. Still, whether in nature or in lore, still 

“ The fairest garden in her looks, 

And in her mind the choicest books 1 ” 

And yet, thou wise Austin — and thou, Roland, poet that never 
wrote a verse — yet your work had been incomplete, but then 
Woman stepped in, and the mother gave to her she designed 
for a daughter the last finish of meek everyday charities — the 
mild household virtues — "the soft word that turneth away 
wrath ” — the angelic pity for man’s rougher faults — the patience 
that bideth its time — and, exacting no "rights of woman,” 
subjugates us, delighted, to the invisible thrall. 

Dost thou remember, my Blanche, that soft summer evening 
when the vows our eyes had long interchanged stole at last 
from the lip ? Wife mine ! come to my side — look over me 
while I write : there, thy tears (happy tears are they not, 
Blanche ?) have blotted the page ! Shall we tell the world 
more ? Right, my Blanche ; no words should profane the place 
where those tears have fallen ..... 

And here I would fain conclude ; but alas, and alas ! that I 
cannot associate with our hopes, on this side the grave, him who, 
we fondly hoped (even on the bridal-day, that gave his sister to 
my arms), would come to the hearth where his place now stood 
vacant, contented with glory, and fitted at last for the tranquil 
happiness which long years of repentance and trial had deserved. 









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A FAMILY PICTURE 


465 


Within the first year of my marriage, and shortly after a 
gallant share in a desperate action, which had covered his name 
with new honours, just when we were most elated, in the 
blinded vanity of human pride, came the fatal news ! The brief 
career was run. He died, as I knew he would have prayed to 
die, at the close of a day ever memorable in the annals of that 
marvellous empire, which valour without parallel has annexed 
to the Throne of the Isles. He died in the arms of Victory, 
and his last smile met the eyes of the noble chief, who, even 
in that hour, could pause from the tide of triumph by the 
victim it had cast on its bloody shore. “ One favour,” faltered 
the dying man ; “ I have a father at home — he, too, is a soldier. 
In my tent is my will : it gives all I have to him — he can take 
it without shame. That is not enough ! Write to him — you — 
with your own hand, and tell him how his son fell ! ” And the 
hero fulfilled the prayer, and that letter is dearer to Roland 
than all the long roll of the ancestral dead ! Nature has re- 
claimed her rights, and the forefathers recede befoie the son. 

In a side chapel of the old Gothic church, amidst the 
mouldering tombs of those who fought at Acre and Agincourt, 
a fresh tablet records the death of Herbert de Caxton, with 
the simple inscription — 

HE FELL ON THE FIELD .* 

HIS COUNTRY MOURNED HIM, 

AND HIS FATHER IS RESIGNED. 

Years have rolled away since that tablet was placed there, 
and changes have passed on that nook of earth which bounds 
our little world : fair chambers have sprung up amidst the 
desolate ruins ; far and near, smiling corn-fields replace the 
bleak dreary moors. The land supports more retainers than 
ever thronged to the pennon of its barons of old ; and Roland 
can look from his Tower over domains that are reclaimed, year 
by year, from the waste, till the ploughshare shall win a lord- 
ship more opulent than those feudal chiefs ever held by the 
tenure of the sword. And the hospitable mirth that had fled 
from the ruin has been renewed in the hall ; and rich and poor, 
great and lowly, have welcomed the rise of an ancient house 
from the dust of decay. All those dreams of Roland’s youth 
are fulfilled; but they do not gladden his heart like the thought 
that his son, at the last, was worthy of his line, and the hope 
that no gulf shall yawn between the two when the Grand 
Circle is rounded, and man’s past and man’s future meet where 
Time disappears. Never was that lost one forgotten ! — never 


466 


THE CAXTONS: 


was his name breathed but tears rushed to the eyes ; and each 
morning the peasant going to his labour might see Roland steal 
down the dell to the deep-set door of the chapel. None 
presume there to follow his steps, or intrude on his solemn 
thoughts ; for there, in sight of that tablet, are his orisons made, 
and the remembrance of the dead forms a part of the commune 
with Heaven. But the old man’s step is still firm, and his brow 
still erect ; and you may see in his face that it was no hollow 
boast which proclaimed that the “ father was resigned ” : and ye 
who doubt if too Roman a hardness might not be found in that 
Christian resignation, think what it is to have feared for a son 
the life of shame, and ask them if the sharpest grief to a father 
is in a son’s death of honour ! 

Years have passed, and two fair daughters play at the knees 
of Blanche, or creep round the footstool of Austin, waiting 
patiently for the expected kiss when he looks up from the Great 
Book, now drawing fast to its close ; or, if Roland enter the 
room, forget all their sober demureness, and, unawed by the 
terrible “ Papae ! ” run clamorous for the promised swing in the 
orchard, or the fiftieth recital of “ Chevy Chase.” 

For my part, I take the goods the gods provide me, and am 
contented with girls that have the eyes of their mother ; but 
Roland, ungrateful man, begins to grumble that we are so 
neglectful of the rights of heirs-male. He is in doubt whether 
to lay the fault on Mr. Squills or on us : I am not sure that 
he does not think it a conspiracy of all three to settle the re- 
presentation of the martial De Caxtons on the “ spindle side.” 
Whosoever be the right person to blame, an omission so fatal to 
the straight line in the pedigree is rectified at last, and Mrs. 
Primmins again rushes, or rather rolls — in the movement natural 
to forms globular and spheral — into my father’s room, with — 

“ Sir, sir — it is a boy ! ” 

Whether my father asked also this time that question so 
puzzling to metaphysical inquirers, “What is a boy?” I know 
not : I rather suspect he had not leisure for so abstract a 
question : for the whole household burst on him, and my mother, 
in that storm peculiar to the elements of the Mind Feminine — 
a sort of sunshiny storm between laughter and crying — whirled 
him off to behold the Neogilos. 

Now, some months after that date, on a winter’s evening, we 
were all assembled in the hall, which was still our usual apart- 
ment, since its size permitted to each his own segregated and 
peculiar employment. A large screen fenced off from interrup- 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


467 


tion my fathers erudite settlement ; and quite out of sight, 
behind that impermeable barrier, he was now calmly winding 
up that eloquent peroration which will astonish the world, 
whenever, by Heaven’s special mercy, the printer’s devils have 
done with “ The History of Human Error.” In another 
nook my uncle had ensconced himself — stirring his coffee (in the 
cup my mother had presented to him so many years ago, and 
which had miraculously escaped all the ills the race of crockery 
is heir to), a volume of “ Ivanhoe ” in the other hand, and, despite 
the charm of the Northern Wizard, his eye not on the page. 
On the wall, behind him, hangs the picture of Sir Herbert de 
Caxton, the soldier-comrade of Sidney and Drake ; and, at the 
foot of the picture, Roland has slung his son’s sword beside the 
letter that spoke of his death, which is framed and glazed : sword 
and letter had become as the last, nor least honoured, Penates 
of the hall : — the son was grown an ancestor. 

Not far from my uncle sat Mr. Squills, employed in mapping 
out phrenological divisions on a cast he had made from the skull 
of one of the Australian aborigines — a ghastly present which 
(in compliance with a yearly letter to that effect) I had brought 
him over, together with a stuffed “wombat” and a large bundle of 
sarsaparilla. (For the satisfaction of his patients, I may observe, 
parenthetically, that the skull and the wombat ” — that last is a 
creature between a miniature pig and a very small badger — were 
not precisely packed up with the sarsaparilla !) Farther on stood 
open, but idle, the new pianoforte, at which, before my father 
had given his preparatory hem, and sat down to the Great Book, 
Blanche and my mother had been trying hard to teach me to 
bear the third in the glee of “ The Chough and Crow to roost 
have gone,” — vain task, in spite of all flattering assurances that 
I have a very fine “ bass,” if I could but manage to humour it. 
Fortunately for the ears of the audience, that attempt is now 
abandoned. My mother is hard at work on her tapestry — the 
last pattern in fashion — to wit, a rosy-cheeked young troubadour 
playing the lute under a salmon-coloured balcony ; the two little 
girls look gravely on, prematurely in love, I suspect, with the 
troubadour ; and Blanche and I have stolen away into a corner, 
which, by some strange delusion, we consider out of sight, and 
in that corner is the cradle of the Neogilos. Indeed, it is not 
our fault that it is there — Roland would have it so ; and the 
baby is so good, too, he never cries — at least so say Blanche 
and my mother : at all events, he does not cry to-night. And, 
indeed, that child is a wonder ! He seems to know and respond 


468 


THE CAXTONS: 


to what was uppermost at our hearts when he was born ; and 
yet more, when Roland (contrary, I dare say, to all custom) 
permitted neither mother, nor nurse, nor creature of womankind, 
to hold him at the baptismal font, but bent over the new 
Christian his own dark high-featured face, reminding one of 
the eagle that hid the infant in its nest, and watched over it 
with wings that had battled with the storm : and from that 
moment the child, who took the name of Herbert, seemed 
to recognise Roland better than his nurse, or even mother — 
seemed to know that, in giving him that name, we sought to 
give Roland his son once more ! Never did the old man come 
near the infant but it smiled, and crowed, and stretched out 
its little arms ; and then the mother and I would press each 
other’s hand secretly, and were not jealous. Well, then, Blanche 
and Pisistratus were seated near the cradle, and talking in low 
whispers, when my father pushed aside the screen, and said — 

" There — the work is done ! — and now it may go to press as 
soon as you will.” 

Congratulations poured in. My father bore them with his 
usual equanimity ; and standing on the hearth, his hand in his 
waistcoat, he said musingly, "Among the last delusions of 
Human Error, I have had to notice Rousseau’s phantasy of 
Perpetual Peace, and all the like pastoral dreams, which pre- 
ceded the bloodiest wars that have convulsed the earth for 
more than a thousand years ! ” 

"And to judge by the newspapers,” said I, "the same delu- 
sions are renewed again. Benevolent theorists go about pro- 
phesying peace as a positive certainty, deduced from that 
sibyl-book the ledger ; and we are never again to buy cannons, 
provided only we can exchange cotton for corn.” 

Mr. Squills (who, having almost wholly retired from general 
business, has, from want of something better to do, attended 
sundry "Demonstrations in the North,” since which he has 
talked much about the march of improvement, the spirit of 
the age, and "us of the nineteenth century”). — "I heartily 
hope that those benevolent theorists are true prophets. I have 
found, in the course of my professional practice, that men go 
out of the world quite fast enough, without hacking them into 
pieces or blowing them up into the air. W T ar is a great evil.” 

Blanche (passing by Squills, and glancing towards Roland). — 
« Hush ! ” 

Roland remains silent. 

Mr. Caxton. — " War is a great evil ; but evil is admitted by 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


469 


Providence into the agency of creation, physical and moral. 
The existence of evil has puzzled wiser heads than ours, Squills. 
But, no doubt, there is One above who has His reasons for it. 
The combative bump seems as common to the human skull as 
the philoprogenitive, — if it is in our organisation, be sure it is 
not there without cause. Neither is it just to man, nor wisely 
submissive to the Disposer of all events, to suppose that war is 
wholly and wantonly produced by human crimes and follies — 
that it conduces only to ill, and does not as often arise from the 
necessities interwoven in the framework of society, and speed 
the great ends of the human race, conformably with the designs 
of the Omniscient. Not one great war has ever desolated the 
earth, but has left behind it seeds that have ripened into 
blessings incalculable ! ” 

Mr. Squills (with the groan of a dissentient at a e: Demon- 
stration ”). — “ Ok ! oh ! oh ! ” 

Luckless Squills ! Little could he have foreseen the shower- 
bath, or rather douche, of erudition that fell splash on his head, 
as he pulled the string with that impertinent Oh ! oh ! Down 
first came the Persian War, with Median myriads disgorging 
all the rivers they had drunk up in their march through the 
East — all the arts, all the letters, all the sciences, all the 
notions of liberty that we inherit from Greece — my father 
rushed on with them all, sousing Squills with his proofs that, 
without the Persian War, Greece would never have risen to be 
the teacher of the world. Before the gasping victim could take 
breath, down came Hun, Goth, and Vandal, on Italy and Squills. 

“ What, sir ! ” cried my father, “ don’t you see that from those 
eruptions on demoralised Rome came the regeneration of man- 
hood ; the rebaptism of earth from the last soils of paganism ; 
and the remote origin of whatever of Christianity yet exists, free 
from the idolatries with which Rome contaminated the faith ? ” 

Squills held up his hands and made a splutter. Down came 
Charlemagne — paladins and all ! There my father was grand ! 
What a picture he made of the broken, jarring, savage elements 
of barbaric society. And the iron hand of the great Frank — 
settling the nations and founding existent Europe. Squills was 
now fast sinking into coma, or stupefaction; but, catching at 
a straw, as he heard the word “ Crusades,” he stuttered forth, 
“ Ah ! there I defy you.” 

“ Defy me there ! ” cries my father ; and one would think 
the ocean was in the shower-bath, it came down in such a 
rattle. My father scarcely touched on the smaller points in 


470 


THE CAXTONS : 


excuse for the Crusades, though he recited very volubly all 
the humaner arts introduced into Europe by that invasion of 
the East ; and showed how it had served civilisation, by the 
vent it afforded for the rude energies of chivalry — by the 
element of destruction to feudal tyranny that it introduced — 
by its use in the emancipation of burghs, and the disrupture 
of serfdom. But he painted, in colours vivid, as if caught 
from the skies of the East, the great spread of Mahometanism, 
and the danger it menaced to Christian Europe — and drew up 
the Godfreys, and Tancreds, and Richards, as a league of the 
Age and Necessity, against the terrible progress of the sword 
and the Koran. “ You call them madmen,” cried my father, 
“but the frenzy of nations is the statesmanship of fate ! How 
know you that — but for the terror inspired by the hosts who 
marched to Jerusalem — how know you that the Crescent had 
not waved over other realms than those which Roderic lost to 
the Moor? If Christianity had been less a passion, and the 
passion had less stirred up all Europe — how know you that 
the creed of the Arab (which was then, too, a passion) might 
not have planted its mosques in the forum of Rome, and on 
the site of Notre Dame ? For in the war between creeds — 
when the creeds are embraced by vast races — think you that 
the reason of sages can cope with the passion of millions ? 
Enthusiasm must oppose enthusiasm. The crusader fought for 
the tomb of Christ, but he saved the life of Christendom.” 

My father paused. Squills was quite passive ; he struggled 
no more — he was drowned. 

“So,” resumed Mr. Caxton, more quietly — “so, if later wars 
yet perplex us as to the good that the All-wise One draws 
from their evils, our posterity may read their uses as clearly as 
we now read the finger of Providence resting on the barrows of 
Marathon, or guiding Peter the Hermit to the battle-fields of 
Palestine. Nor, while we admit the evil to the passing genera- 
tion, can we deny that many of the virtues that make the 
ornament and vitality of peace sprung up first in the convulsion 
of war ! ” Here Squills began to evince faint signs of resuscita- 
tion, when my father let fly at him one of those numberless 
waterworks which his prodigious memory kept in constant 
supply. “Hence,” said he, “hence, not unjustly, has it been 
remarked by a philosopher, shrewd at least in worldly experi- 
ence ” — (Squills again closed his eyes, and became exanimate) — 
“ f It is strange to imagine that war, which of all things appears 
the most savage, should be the passion of the most heroic spirits. 


A FAMILY PICTURE 


471 


But tis in war that the knot of fellowship is closest drawn ; 
’tis in war that mutual succour is most given — mutual danger 
run, and common affection most exerted and employed ; for 
heroism and philanthropy are almost one and the same ! ’ ” 1 

My father ceased, and mused a little. Squills, if still living, 
thought it prudent to feign continued extinction. 

"Not/’ said Mr. Caxton, resuming — “not but what I hold it 
our duty never to foster into a passion what we must rather 
submit to as an awful necessity. You say truly, Mr. Squills — 
war is an evil ; and woe to those who, on slight pretences, open 
the gates of Janus — 

* The dire abode, 

And the fierce issues of the furious god.’” 

Mr. Squills, after a long pause — employed in some of the 
more handy means for the reanimation of submerged bodies, 
supporting himself close to the fire in a semi-erect posture, 
with gentle friction, self-applied, to each several limb, and 
copious recourse to certain steaming stimulants which my com- 
passionate hands prepared for him — stretches himself, and says 
feebly, “ In short, then, not to provoke farther discussion, you 
would go to war in defence of your country. Stop, sir — stop, 
for Heaven’s sake ! I agree with you — I agree with you ! But, 
fortunately, there is little chance now that any new Boney will 
build boats at Boulogne to invade us.” 

Mr. Caxton . — “ I am not so sure of that, Mr. Squills.” 
(Squills falls back with a glassy stare of deprecating horror.) 
“ I don’t read the newspapers very often, but the past helps me 
to judge of the present.” 

Therewith my father earnestly recommended to Mr. Squills 
the careful perusal of certain passages in Thucydides, just pre- 
vious to the outbreak of the Peloponnesian war (Squills hastily 
nodded the most servile acquiescence), and drew an ingenious 
parallel between the signs and symptoms foreboding that out- 
break, and the very apprehension of coming war which was 
evinced by the recent Io pceans to peace . 2 And, after sundry 
notable and shrewd remarks, tending to show where elements 
for war were already ripening, amidst clashing opinions and 

1 Shaftesbury. 

2 When this work was first published, Mr. Caxton was generally 
deemed a very false prophet in these anticipations, and sundry critics 
were pleased to consider his apology for war neither seasonable nor 
philosophical. That Mr. Caxton was right, and the politicians opposed 
to him have been somewhat ludicrously wrong, may be briefly accounted 
for — Mr. Caxton had read history. 


472 


THE CAXTONS 


disorganised states, he wound up with saying — “So that, all 
things considered, I think we had better just keep up enough 
of the bellicose spirit, not to think it a sin if we are called upon 
to fight for our pestles and mortars, our three-per-cents, goods, 
chattels, and liberties. Such a time must come, sooner or 
later, even though the whole world were spinning cotton and 
printing sprigged calicoes. We may not see it. Squills, but 
that young gentleman in the cradle*, whom you have lately 
brought into light, may.” 

“And if so,” said my uncle abruptly, speaking for the first 
time — “if indeed it be for altar and hearth !” My father sud- 
denly drew in and pished a little, for he saw that he was caught 
in the web of his own eloquence. 

Then Roland took down from the wall his son’s sword. Steal- 
ing to the cradle, he laid it in its sheath by the infant’s side, and 
glanced from my father to us with a beseeching eye. Instinc- 
tively Blanche bent over the cradle, as if to protect the Neogilos, 
but the child, waking, turned from her, and attracted by the 
glitter of the hilt, laid one hand lustily thereon, and pointed with 
the other, laughingly, to Roland. 

“ Only on my father’s proviso,” said I hesitatingly. “ For 
hearth and altar — nothing less ! ” 

“ And even in that case,” said my father, “ add the shield to the 
sword ! ” and on the other side of the infant he placed Roland’s 
well-worn Bible, blistered in many a page with secret tears. 

There we all stood, grouping round the young centre of so 
many hopes and fears — in peace or in war, born alike for the 
Battle of Life. And he, unconscious of all that made our lips 
silent, and our eyes dim, had already left that bright bauble of 
the sword, and thrown both arms round Roland’s bended neck. 

“Herbert!” murmured Roland; and Blanche gently drew 
away the sword — and left the Bible. 







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